


Afternoon Weirdness

by Teland



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vignette, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-08-31
Updated: 1998-08-31
Packaged: 2020-11-28 07:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: A series of vignettes that... uh. Yeah.





	1. A Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Written twenty-one years ago, y'all. That's all you *really* need to know.

A dress.

He was wearing a dress... and it didn't work on him at all.   
The body was too angular, flat and hard. Sure, under the   
flesh was a lissome sway, a twist and wave of motion more   
suited for certain dances than-- 

Well, that's not true. Everything about him suited just   
fine. He was perfect when I had him, legs locked around my   
waist and howling. Begging. So beautiful, hair sweat-  
plastered to the finely shaped skull, lips parted, swollen   
by my kisses. By my cock. Yeah he was beautiful on his   
knees, too. It hurt sometimes, so much. I can tell you   
that because I think you understand... 

I gave him the usual spiel about expanding horizons,   
altered states of consciousness, etc. -- but when I first   
pulled out the straps, the floggers and plugs, it was only   
because I needed to hurt him. As much as he was hurting   
me. No one ought to look that wonderful in pain. Welted,   
trembling, begging me not to stop...

Do you have any idea how close I came to killing him? Every   
night we were together, I swear it. I don't think he ever   
knew. I hope he didn't. Because he was beautiful, and it   
was bitter, and it was my heart.

My heart doesn't belong in linen, draped in flowers. I   
said:

"Take off that dress."

He only smirked. 'Make me.'

So I took out my knife.


	2. So Minimal

Watching you, watching you... Mulder, do you have any idea   
how much of your life is on video? Miles and miles of tape.   
Maybe you do know.... Would that be why you always put on   
such a show?

Or maybe I'm just easily amused. 

It wasn't difficult to get back into the game, you know. I   
made a few mistakes, got my ass caught... but there's   
always gonna to be *someone* who wants your ass, Mulder.   
For something. So I got myself a patron, cultured and   
elegant enough to make the occasional grope forgivable   
and.... Well, he was very clean. You can't always count on   
that. Easy to wind myself back in, the errand boy too   
dangerous to be ignored, too potentially valuable to be   
killed. 

My patron knew the truth behind that "potential," but I   
think he was fond of me, in his way. I made sure he knew   
how to find you. I made sure his death was both painless   
and spectacular. I know he'd appreciate the irony of such   
an eminently *noticeable* end. 

Did you?

Stop looking at me like that, you're hurting my feelings. I   
do have feelings, you know. And so do you. Eventually I'm   
going to take off the gag and you can tell me all about   
them.

But I want to keep talking at you for a while, I do. They   
kept me away from any direct contact with you. They knew   
bad things tended to happen when we got together.... Such   
a close call in Russia. You really had no clue, did you?   
Just a few more days and I would've been able to put it   
all in your greedy little hands.

Hands. You have nice ones, you know that? I've always liked   
hands. Manipulation, of course. I know the jargon as well   
as you do. Better on some things, I think. Do you know how   
many people get into psychology solely to figure out what's   
wrong with them? 

Of course you do. I could get used to that eye roll. You   
learned that from Scully, didn't you?

Stop that, really. I know you've had time to think about   
that. I'm not going to sit here and make apologies I don't   
mean, or excuses that would only make both of us lose   
respect for me. What, you don't respect me?

What if I just kissed you again?

Stop flinching.

Mulder, I remember things about your hands. So spidery and   
jittery... they felt good on my skin. On my cock. Did you   
like the way it felt? God, I remember how hard I was....   
felt like my heart was beating in my cock. You wouldn't   
let me return the favor. I have no idea what excuse you   
made but it was terribly disappointing. I wanted you to   
spin me around and fuck me through the nearest wall. 

I could touch you right now.

You wouldn't be able to stop me... you could even call it   
rape. Would you like that? Is it obscene to ask? 

I can't tell what that look means. Are you *trying* to make   
me take off the gag, Mulder? That's not at all fair. I   
watched you for so long... taking care of business in the   
*daylight* hours so I could devote my nights to you. When   
did you stop caring about the surveillance? And where did   
you get that dildo from, hunh? Who were you thinking about   
when you stripped from the waist down and fucked yourself? 

Not even a blush. You've decided you know my game, then. It   
can't shock you so long as it's sexual. Don't give the perp   
anything to play with, right? 

Thank you, Mulder. I needed that. Just a little narrowing,   
a bit of crinkle around your eyes -- and we're all getting   
older, aren't we? -- but it's enough. Don't worry. I have   
my own toys.

Like this.

A bit ostentatious, I know. Switchblade would serve the   
same purpose, but there's a certain romance to a straight   
razor, don't you think? Let me get a little closer... you   
don't mind, do you? I want you to see this. Those sodium   
things outside your place are nothing compared to   
moonlight, but still... I think you can appreciate the   
glitter. 

You're angry now. Should I take off the gag? Should I cut   
it off? What if I ran the edge down your chest just. like.   
this--

Whoops.

Sorry, Mulder, I didn't mean to cut you. Yet. But you were   
breathing so hard.... Just a little blood on the blade....   
You taste good. Want some? 

Of *course* you don't.

Yeah, this turns me on. Maybe you can tell me later   
exactly what it means. That degree should count for   
something.

Would you like to know what I'm going to do to you?

Oh, I could get used to the look on your face. Do you know   
what you look like? You want to hit me. You're thinking   
about all those times you had me at gunpoint, or even   
shiv-point, and fucked up. That's what you're thinking, I   
know it. Can you see yourself killing me, now? I can see   
your mind working, Fox. Such beautiful eyes...

I'm going to cut your shirt open. Leave the halves resting   
on your shoulders... No, maybe a little further down so I   
can see your arms twisting in their sockets. I've gained   
an appreciation for shoulders in the past year or so. 

I'm going to touch you with the razor... I really don't   
trust my hand on your body. I'll be careful, see? 

You're breathing harder. You know what I think? I think you   
want this just as bad as I do. Or think you do. Tell me   
this: You really don't want to have killed me when you   
first found out about my little betrayal, do you? 

How about a little dry shave? You want me to open your   
pants, too? I will.... just nod. I suppose that lovely   
little thrust will have to do for an answer. 

God, your cock even prettier than dreamed about. I'm sorry,   
Mulder, we're going to have to abandon the game for just a   
moment while I...

Mmm... yeah. You taste as good as I dreamed, too. I don't   
mind telling you how bad I wanted you. How bad I want you   
now... It *is* why I'm here. Just one more taste...

Make that sound again?

No matter. I'll remember it.

But I was saying.... What *was* I saying? You made me   
forget. Bad you.

Shh. Shh.... It was just a little cut. Look, you're hardly   
bleeding at all. Let it give you a little focus, hmm? It   
certainly improves *my* concentration. I was saying that I   
know exactly when you wish you'd killed me. 

Oh, I was wrong. I like *this* look a lot better. Look at   
yourself. You're even harder than you were before... but   
even if I didn't have your personal divining rod to show   
me the truth I could see it in your eyes. It shows,   
Mulder. Really. 

If I had another hand I could just yank your head back when   
I wanted you to look at me again. As it is... 

No one ever said you weren't a bright boy. 

Now, when you wish you'd killed me: Hong Kong. Right when I   
asked you to. Public. Messy. Cold-blooded. No way you   
would've gotten off. Bad enough you even *had* a gun in   
that country -- and you know full well that *my* prints   
weren't on it -- but cold- blooded murder? It would've been   
over. All of it. You would've gotten the death penalty,   
but they're a lot less punctilious about keeping the   
criminals alive until their execution date over there....   
And you knew that, too.

Over. For both of us. 

You should've done it, you son of a bitch. 

...

There. Gag's off. Your mouth's a little swollen... but it   
looks good on you. Talk to me, Mulder. Was I right?

Another silent look? Do you just like the sound of my voice   
that much? 

...

All right. I know that look, too. 

Anything you want. 

~~~~~  
End.  
~~~~~


	3. Shadowsweat

Long, long legs.

You're not supposed to notice a man's legs, I know, but his   
were rather impossible to ignore. Even back then.   
Scissoring neatly at my side and just behind, the   
occasional bend and flex revealing a tantalizing hint of   
muscle beneath the horror of a suit. 

They made me want to kneel down and peel those wool-blend   
monstrosities off. Made me...

No, you're right, there's no real point in being coy. 

Coy. That's how I thought of him. All husky purr and big   
green eyes. All too obvious in his schoolboy adoration,   
right down to the right phrases. The crowning touch was the   
occasional sharp little gleam. An invitation to share the   
joke, to take him aside and meet the "real" Alex. Yeah, I   
fell for it. Hard, too. I had any number of fantasies about   
it.... I could always count on my brain to provide just the   
right film reel for the impossible or simply wrong.

My favorite, now.... That had to be the office one. One day   
I'd lean back in that awful bullpen chair and he'd say, all   
solicitude,

"Is there anything wrong, Mulder?" Maybe even "Agent   
Mulder," if he was trying especially hard to be correct   
and good, or give the appearance of same.

And I would say, "No, Alex, not really...." and wait for   
the gleam of pleasure -- it would be real, I was sure of it   
\-- at my use of his first name, and then, "I was just   
thinking,"

Quizzical face. Cute puppy face. 

"I want to show you something."

"Sure, Mulder."

And I'd take him down *there*. To the office. And I'd show   
him everything, and I'd let the hope -- it would be real, I   
won't lie to myself -- that he'd appreciate it show. He'd   
say:

"This really means a lot, Mulder. That you... you could   
trust me with this." Purring even more than usual. Laying   
it on thick. 

"How much does it mean to you?" A hint -- just a hint, mind   
you -- of what I wanted. But he was trained to listen for   
it, I knew that, too. He'd look at me, then. I knew how   
badly he wanted me, you see, even under the lies. That is,   
I thought I did. It took a while for me to get the control   
to slow it down at this point.

"What do you mean?" He'd let his eyes roam, then. Maybe   
throw a glance at the door I'd closed and locked. It's a   
fantasy, I'm allowed to break a few policies. 

"How far are you willing to go for this game, Krycek?"

"Wha--?"

"Suck me."

He'd reel back a bit, and the anger would peek through as   
he tried to figure out the best way to handle this little   
turn of events. Delicious. Then the game face would be   
back, nervous lick at his lips.

"Mulder?" I wouldn't say a word then. Just undo my pants,   
whip myself out. Moment of truth. If he wasn't a plant   
he'd have to at least *pretend* to be outraged. Walk out.   
If he was a spy, even if getting in my pants wasn't the   
agenda, he'd have to do whatever I said. Gain my trust.   
Flaws in the reasoning, to be sure, but they're not the   
sort you worry about with your cock in your hand, heavy and   
slick.

He'd kneel, of course. I'd lose myself in that sharp tongue   
at the slit, soft lips taking me deeper and deeper...

"Look at me."

Those lashes would flutter. Hard to keep your game face on   
with a cock in your mouth, but he'd do it. Confusion. Lust.   
Hurt... Maybe his lip would be split from the thrusts. I'd   
put my hand in the damp hair, caress in a way that could,   
possibly, be construed as apology. His hand, the one that   
wasn't pumping me nice and slow, would slip down to his own   
pants.

"Don't you fucking touch yourself, Krycek. You're mine, got   
that?" Sometimes I could even fool myself that my voice   
would be steady and convincing at that point. In any case,   
I'd get another flash of anger. That "Just wait" look. But   
I'd rub the back of his neck a little. Make a few   
encouraging sounds. Just as his eyes closed again I'd yank   
him off. None too gently.

He'd be a little off-balance. Definitely confused. I'd let   
him watch me stroke myself for a little while before moving   
closer. Run my cock over his cheek. Dirty that pretty   
face. This is exactly what you deserve, you son of a   
bitch. I think I could've kept myself from saying that out   
loud. His eyes would get a little dazed, then. He wants to   
be used. He knows he deserves it. He'd run his tongue out   
to catch at me. I'd backhand him.

It took weeks before I could hold my load beyond that   
point. Point, point.... I'm sure I had one. It doesn't   
matter, now. Of course he was a spy. Who knows, maybe if   
I'd ever actually followed through instead of just jerking   
him off in some anonymous rest stop men's room it would've   
gone down exactly that way. Or maybe he would've looked at   
me, bold and shameless. 

Walked up to me and asked what I really wanted. 

I bet I would've told him... and then I would've *had* to   
kill him, one of those times. And it would've been over.   
And I wouldn't be sitting here, waiting for him to either   
suck my dick or slit my throat. Wondering if, at this   
point, it really matters which.

~~~~~~  
End.  
~~~~~~


	4. Makeup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a message dated 8/23/98 4:19:30 AM, I and then torch   
wrote:
> 
> >>{swoons} Tell me about the shoes?
> 
> >Mmm, I seem to detect a shoe fetish here. Reminds me in a   
roundabout way of that bit in IaDT:S where Mulder wants to   
lie down in the alley and have Alex rub a foot over his   
crotch.
> 
> {giggling} A *frustrated* shoe fetish. I have to go to the   
drag queen shops to find kicky shoes that fit my 6ft tall   
black woman footies, and even then I'm terribly clumsy in   
them. I want to put Mulder in a dress again and again, and   
have Alex paint his nails (toes and fingers), and give him   
some mascara, and then, and only then, a dark, subtle   
shade of lipstick.

By this point he's pinned Mulder to the couch because it's   
the only way to keep the man still. Sort of straddling him   
at the waist, awkwardly. Mulder's doing his best to   
support Alex's spine with his knees. And Alex leans over,   
he leans over and runs the tip of the lipstick over the   
lower lip first

(he really can't resist)

And Mulder thinks about the sensation, closing his eyes   
almost all the way, and the closest he can come is "velvet   
glue" and he really wishes Alex would scoot a little   
further down, or perhaps up, but all he's doing is

dabbing and brushing. He's not doing this right at all.   
It's been far too long, and it's far too entertaining to   
paint the lush lips. 

(Somewhere, in the back of Alex's mind, is the song "Lush   
Life," but he can never quite remember how it goes and the   
closest he can come to it is "dance with me, for tomorrow   
we die")

Oh, this could go on for hours. When Mulder starts getting   
fidgety, Alex swats at the finely turned wrists, smudging   
the older man a bit.

"Stop that, your nails aren't dry."

A pause, while they glare at each other just long enough to   
forget why they're angry. They can do that now, in this   
place, at this time, because there's nothing else *to* do.   
It's possible they'll get bored someday, but for now? All   
is well. Alex goes back to the now quite unnecessary   
daubing.

"I think my lips are done, Alex..."

You see, those lips are the *only* thing in Alex's focus at   
that moment. Watching them move, seeing the glisten of warm   
lamplight on the make-up, watching them shape his name....

He dives in for a kiss and it tastes exactly like the   
reason why he stopped doing this, but the slide of the   
stuff along his own mouth and cheek feels too, too good.

Alex pulls away again and his fine work has been ruined.   
Mulder looks like a cheap, drunken whore after the frat   
gangbang.

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

******  
End.   
******


	5. Soft Decline

Mulder took off his jacket, and his shirt, and his t-shirt,   
and sat at the computer. Swiped a finger across the monitor   
with a mild moue of distaste. He had no clue when he'd last   
dusted the thing. He lay his head on the soft gel wrist   
rest and waited, patiently, to care.

He had rearraged the apartment for the summer, moving the   
computer directly across from the air conditioner. He'd had   
a twinge of worry -- after all, the new arrangement left   
him vulnerable to sniper fire -- but Washington gets *hot*   
in those summer months. Not that healing bone warmth,   
either. This was the kind of heat that stripped you naked   
and rubbed you down with burning ooze, then *plastered*   
them back on in some fabric-ian parody of papier mache. 

So the desk had been moved. After a time, the deliberate   
slowing of his body allowed him to feel the first prickle   
of cool air along his nape. Mulder was abruptly   
appreciative of the new, shorter haircut, despite the   
neatly aimed eybrow from Scully and the muttered "hedgehog"   
comments from...

Well, from Alex. Times like these, the day barely over, the   
night promising to be just as lonely and pointless as the   
vast majority of his life.... He simply didn't have the   
energy to work himself up about *that* new arrangement. 

He nuzzled himself into the spongy length of grey. If he   
was to be honest with himself, a lot of things were burned   
away quite effectively by that first, knowing touch on his   
cock. The voice in his ear. Alex had said:

"Can we, just this once, pretend this is all that matters?"

When he'd bucked into Alex's hand, when he'd leaned back   
and back into that solidity of leather and need, he'd given   
all the answer necessary.

And Alex's smile against his cheek was just fine, too,   
because Mulder knew he never made enough people smile. 

Sometimes, lying just like this, the computer era's answer   
to Dead Man's Float, he could feel the whisper of those   
soft, peach lips right where the false breeze was tickling   
him.

And imagine the clever hand on his body, the sudden,   
shocking strength of another man to hold there, right   
there. And the mouth would bite down hard, once, before   
mapping his spine. The mouth was too small for the secrets   
it knew, the treasures it whispered. 

Mulder's fingertips brushed the dusty carpet; he was ape-  
like, stupid with early evening indolence and cock-heavy   
despair. 

Alex hadn't stayed long enough... but when Mulder had awoke   
there was a crisp, manila folder of dirty secrets and a   
crumpled leather glove on the mattress.

He had, at some point, begged the younger man to put it   
back on. Alex had given him a good, solid week to wonder   
if it was mock or sentiment before slipping into bed with   
him one Thursday night, slipping in and slipping down, and   
slipping his mouth right down on Mulder's cock.

A promise to return, then.

Mulder came to himself with the realization that he'd been   
nuzzling the wrist rest like an animal in heat. This   
wouldn't do. He would, at the very least, decide if he was   
going to be too depressed to beat off.

The urgency was building, just a bit.

He mused on the nature of vulnerability, how any reasonably   
well-adjusted adult male might decide to willingly place   
himself in the line of fire for the opportunity of comfort.

Might lay it all on the line to bind his partner with guilt   
and need, to have her with him, always. 

Might spread himself on the coverlet, and kneel up, and   
offer. No, that's wrong. Spread himself and *beg* for...

For what? 

It would be disingenuous to say forgetfulness... He'd never   
forgotten, and forgiveness wouldn't be half so thrilling.   
And there'd be no thrill without fear, so the presumed   
safety of another man's arms would be a lie as well. 

Perhaps, the beauty of vulnerability was the ease of it,   
the way in which one, after making the choice to do so,   
could give it all to another person. If only for a few   
hours. 

To be allowed the illusion of a clean attic, a heart free   
of baggage and care for just another hour of salt-slick   
hunger and suffering.

Given time, he was nearly positive he could relate that to   
the air conditioner. Somehow.

******  
End.   
******


	6. If you knew my infinite charms...

Alex leaned back against the wall, careful of the vague   
sponginess, the sense of instability under the stained   
beige paint. He had a brief, disturbing moment in which he   
wished he still had someone to chauffeur for. But there   
were other

//always more//

jobs to do. Necessities. And this one involved pressing   
back and back into decay and trying to ignore the raging   
hard-on he was currently sporting. The last bullet had come   
much too close, the air was rank with American rot, and   
there was something positively nasty on the sole of his   
right boot. This whole assignment had the makings of a   
world class fuck-up, and, as always, that made him horny. 

He'd never quite figured out the connection between the   
two, but it had been a standard physical reaction since   
puberty. Have a paper due in 6 hours? Beat off. Drag your   
life just *that* much closer to utter ruin? Beat off. Get a   
gun shoved in your face? Well, there's rarely a good   
opportunity to beat off when that happens. Hence, the   
raging hard on. 

More gunshots, and the bit of vinyl nailed to the window   
now had all the light-blocking abilities of moldering Swiss   
cheese. Alex was grateful for the past few weeks he'd spent   
living from hand to mouth while tracking this target. He   
was, apparently, just about lean enough to fade, literally,   
into the woodwork. Though he'd have to patch his jacket   
again. 

Not that the ostentatious hardship had been *strictly*   
necesary. The little mad scientist (with the blessedly poor   
aim) he'd been hunting could've been found by any one of   
the underlings he'd appeared to have inherited with his   
former patron's demise.... However, every once in a while,   
Alex got the distinct impression there was something that   
needed to be Done. He was fully aware that it was paranoia   
on his part, but such petty insanities were a part of the   
life he'd chosen for himself. And the rat-like existence   
had its diversions, if not precisely pleasures. 

And, besides, pumping a clip full of hollow points into   
another man's skull tended to be both therapeutic *and*   
practical.

//Waste no part of the animal.//

Click-click from just around the corner and Alex felt his   
lips pull back from his teeth. Felt the sporadic beams of   
bullet-freed sunlight spotlight his back with pinpoint   
warmth. Almost... *almost*... felt the assignment's heart   
plummet straight down to his intestines with that   
impression of "Oh, fuck, no," that freezes a man in place.

Alex stroked himself once, twice, again, through the denim.   
Wasting time. Giving the target time he shouldn't. But, oh   
yeah, it felt good. A voice at the back of his mind said:

This is stupid, wrong, and dangerous.

Alex bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, nodded to   
himself, gave his cock one last, vicious squeeze, and   
turned the corner just in time to see the rabbity little   
freak gearing himself up to escape.

"Too damn slow, Marks."

"Please..."

"Too damn late."

One shot, two shot, and this was so messy even the   
apathetic and cowed residents of this nasty little place   
*had* to be taking notice by now.

Marks was pulped. Alex was... spattered. He checked his   
watch. Eight p.m.

He wondered what Mulder was up to.

~~~~  
End  
~~~~


	7. Six or seven steps behind you

Mulder returned to consciousness at the sound of a safety   
snicking off rather too close to his left ear. He sucked in   
a breath and was pleasantly assaulted by the scent of his   
own hand lotion from the wrist-rest... and leather and   
machine oil.

Alex, then. Other men fell asleep or cuddled after sex.   
Alex cleaned his gun. Most of the time, it was cute. 

"Was it something I said?"

"I could've killed you where you sat. Sprawled. Whatever   
the hell you're doing."

"You could've killed me in bed, too...."

"Yes, but you wouldn't be torturing your spine."

Mulder blinked once, slowly. Marveled, again, at how   
amazingly comfortable the wrist-rest was. Took it in.

"You're holding a gun to my head because my sleeping habits   
are poor."

"It saddens me when you don't take care of yourself."

Mulder chuckled, a little more raspily than he expected.   
Apparently, he'd been asleep for quite some time. It was   
less than a comforting thought, but still...

"I'm touched, Alex."

//Dammit--//

"Don't say it--"

Alex snorted from behind him and Mulder could feel the   
slight shift in the air that indicated the omnipresent   
weapon being re-holstered. Mulder smiled to himself,   
removed his own throwaway from its ankle holster, and   
spun. Bleary-eyed, dizzy, and still half-asleep, Mulder   
managed to have the gun aimed more or less accurately at   
the fine column of Alex's throat. He wondered if he should   
start taking massive doses of Benadryl before going out on   
cases.

Alex was... beaming at him. He looked downright misty-eyed,   
not to put too fine a point on it. 

"*What*, Alex?"

"That has to be the sneakiest thing you've ever pulled,   
Mulder..."

"Well, yes, but--"

He was cut off by a move that left his gun arm twisted   
painfully behind his back, and a kiss that claimed his   
mouth with the brutality of affection. After a time, Alex   
adjusted their relative positions to improve his access to   
Mulder's mouth, loosening his grip on the arm to not-quite   
pain. His tongue was a muscular assault. 

Mulder was allowed back to himself, back to a field of   
vision made up entirely of an Alex flushed with a   
disturbingly arousing mixture of lust and childlike glee.   
A twelve-year-old with his very first hard-on.

//Don't go there.//

Another several moments to stare into eyes gradually   
becoming blackly unreadable by the encroaching darkness,

//But I'll know...//

and Mulder darted forward just far enough to swipe his   
tongue along the younger man's mouth. Whispered in the   
meaningless space between kiss and kissed:

"Can I have my arm back?"

And there was a thumb rubbing circles into his wrist and   
soft lips brushing and pressing and a nagging indecision at   
the back of his mind: Should he pull Alex to the floor?   
Should he stand into his embrace?

It became moot when the just-a-little-too-muscular arm   
released his own and pulled him up and close, pulled him   
in to lean muscle and demanding heat and the only thing he   
could really do, at that point, was swivel shamelessly into   
the offered lust. 

A groan against his throat and Mulder slid his arms around   
the younger man's back, traced vertebrae too close to the   
surface...

//If he stays for breakfast, I'm going to hold a gun to his   
temple through an entire plate of waffles. And then I'm   
going to blow him.

//If he doesn't stay for breakfast, I will hunt him down   
with a bag full of White Castle burgers, pistol whip him,   
watch him eat, and then blow him.//

... and did his best to get closer still. 

"Alex..."

Tickling growl at his collarbone and Mulder blessed the   
impulse that had made him strip to the waist before   
settling at the computer.

"What's on the agenda for tonight, Mulder?"

"Same thing we don't do nearly enough nights, Alex."

And then he was being spun around and away and he was   
supporting himself on shaking arms. A fumble, if a fast   
one, at his waist and his suit pants were puddled around   
his ankles. Alex cupped him once, possessively, through   
the much-too-tight boxer briefs, before ripping them off as   
efficiently as possible.

Bare and ready, and cool, canned air brushed him to   
gooseflesh and want. No warning save for a muffled thump   
behind him and Alex was gripping his ass hard enough to   
bruise and 

oh jesus that couldn't possibly be easy with one hand so   
Mulder decided to help and he was bound to be on his own   
knees soon enough with that whip, that welcome punishment   
of tongue that made his knees tremble and his hips buck and   
his mind reel through a thousand possible ways to make Alex   
feel this absurdly powerless...

And then he stopped. 

//Definitely pistol-whip him.//

But there was really no time to protest as that tongue   
seemed to press hard enough into his spine to bruise as   
Alex made his way up and up... relentless. Mulder found   
himself arching into the -- somehow, even more decadent   
than usual -- touch. 

"I'm going to fuck you, right here, right now."

"I love it when you're concise."

An acknowledgment of his coherency in a vicious bite just   
behind his ear and then Mulder was bucking away,   
reflexively, from the cool of the slick.

"Sorry, next time I'll keep it in my jeans..."

And Mulder was quite sure that Alex was still talking but   
the sound had smoothed and faded to a breathy husk against   
his ear and ratcheting pleasure from clever fingers. No   
real point to this, he'd been ready from the second he'd   
awakened to find Alex gone the last time but it felt good   
and the sounds he was making were good and, in these   
moments, he *was* good. 

"... cat in heat... Jesus, Mulder... spread yourself for   
me..."

He thanked his brain for letting certain important Alex   
comments seep through the haze, stood just long enough to   
feel the younger man fit himself there, right there before   
bracing himself for the thrust and Alex was sliding that   
slick hand around him and up his torso to grab a shoulder   
and pull

down and back and pinioned, skewered with a lover's need   
and there was no better way to be on a lonely Tuesday   
night just this side of pointless ripped, thankfully, into   
the realm of obsession and something a great deal like--

"I love you, Alex--"

"Don't... say that..."

And Mulder laughed then,

"Too late."

a sensation sending rolling waves of precious humor   
straight down to his cock and yeah he might as well let   
his hand follow them and pull and pull and when Alex bit   
off whatever declarations he might have made into Mulder's   
shoulder.... 

Well, that was only to be expected.

~~~~~~  
End.  
~~~~~~


	8. Oh so serious

Through the fringe of his lashes, Mulder watched Alex   
getting dressed. The shades were drawn, but Mulder could   
tell it wasn't *nearly* day yet. Alex wasn't staying for   
breakfast.

The older man knew full well that Alex knew he wasn't   
sleeping, and that Alex knew he knew, but this little game   
had its own brand of sentiment. One enjoys the illusion of   
a lover at rest, the other enjoys the often gratuitously   
slow pull and stretch of a process that had no right to the   
grace it stole. Both had the luxury of avoiding good-byes   
that had every opportunity to gain the unwelcome resonance   
of finality.

However, Alex wasn't staying for breakfast. 

Mulder remained still, drank in the beautiful, mutilated   
form as Alex got in one last stretch before walking out of   
the bedroom. Soft thump of boot heels on carpet and Mulder   
wondered, for a moment, why Alex's exits were always so   
much more noticeable than his entrances. And then he could   
hear the apartment door closing with that vaguely   
satisfactory thunk it had, and he was peeling himself out   
of bed. 

Sweats and a t-shirt, laid carefully aside before joining   
Alex in the shower the night before, were thrown on. 

Fingers were run, futilely, through hair made even spikier   
by sleep and humidity. 

Mulder made it to the kitchen window just in time to see   
his lover stalking down the street. The cold, sober light   
of morning only served to make Alex stand out in stark   
relief against the rest of this dingy little corner of the   
world. 

//Too early for that outfit, Alex...//

An obvious night creature on his way home from...

What?

A moment to wonder just how Alex thought of him when he   
wasn't in the younger man's direct view, and then Alex was   
turning, smoothly and with conscious ease,

//Do you know I'm watching you?

//Do you just assume someone always is?//

into some random back alley. Sputter of what sounded to be   
a pathetically weak engine and he was driving east in a...

In a lime green VW bug. 

Mulder blinked once, and again, muttered to himself about   
"certain sacrifices" and "camouflage," snatched up shoes   
and car keys, before heading out to follow. It was barely   
after five.... It was entirely possible he'd still be able   
to make it to work on time. 

******

Merry chase through the back streets of cluttered Virginia   
suburbia, thoroughly un-merry chase over the horror of the   
Beltway. Mulder was quite sure that no one outside the   
nation's capital could be so insane as to have a thing like   
bumper-to- bumper traffic at speeds approaching 80 mph. He   
had heard things about L.A., though. 

But after a time, Mulder had to admit he approved of Alex's   
choice of vehicle. Although his own government-issued   
Taurus faded into anonymity relatively quickly given the   
surroundings, the human eye literally skittered *past* the   
Beetle. Too ugly. Too small. Too *wrong* for this day,   
this age. The color alone made the mind erect any number of   
walls in an attempt to make the viewer forget he'd ever   
seen such a thing. 

It was the Anti-Car. 

But Mulder was determined. Positively dogged in his pursuit   
of his lover. The man needed to *eat*.

//I need to sleep more.//

******

Six-fifteen in the morning and Mulder had spent the last   
ten minutes watching Alex recline oh-so-casually as *he*   
watched what appeared to be the world's most incongruously   
placed upscale yuppie deli. The heart of Southeast was no   
place for bean sprouts and overpriced goose liver. 

He let his mind drift into a fantasy of iced cappuccino and   
Alex's naked skin. Maybe some pleasantly astringent   
vinegar, instead. Tart, juicy olive balanced in the softly   
crinkled navel. Sharp cheese sliced with any one of the   
knives probably on Alex's person at this very moment,   
placed gently on the ripe bow of the mouth and...

Alex was flowing from the car, following an older man clad   
in an expensively tailored suit into yet another alley.   
Mulder remained still as long as he possibly could,   
steadfastly *not* thinking about random murder, or,   
perhaps, Alex on his knees, dirtying his jeans in   
yuppiemuck, his mouth on another man...

Steadfastly *not* trying to decide which upset him more.

//He didn't say it back...

//He asked you not to say it...//

And Mulder was in motion, gun out and tucked behind a fold   
of the sweats, moving just in time to see the older man   
walking away, and Alex tucking yet another manila folder   
into his jacket. 

Alex didn't even flinch when Mulder tucked the barrel of   
the gun into the soft pocket of his nape. 

"What *is* it, Mulder?"

Abruptly, Mulder realized he hadn't a clue what to say. 

"You didn't stay for breakfast."

//Well, at least I kept it simple...//

"I didn't stay--" Alex cut himself off with a tooth-click   
of incredulity and turned, slowly, to face him.   
"Breakfast."

Mulder nodded once and smiled at the look on the younger   
man's face, not letting his gun arm waver this time.

"You're holding me at gunpoint..."

Another nod.

"... because I didn't stay for breakfast."

It wasn't a question, so Mulder didn't treat it as such,   
merely ran the gun up from under the vaguely childish   
chin, over stubbled cheek to caress the ear. Alex turned   
slightly, helpfully. 

"You really ought to eat more, Alex."

"So you're taking me out to eat."

"Yes."

"At gunpoint."

"Yes. And then..."

Alex quirked an eyebrow, moved a little closer. Mulder gave   
up on the game and let Alex catch his gun arm with his   
shoulder. Kissing distance and heat from spiky morning hair   
down to the knees that brushed and argued about spreading.   
"And then what, Mulder?" In the voice that could make him   
throb at twenty paces, that, at this distance, obliterated   
both intellect and shame...

"And then we're going back to *my* car." A chuckle rumbled   
off the tongue at his ear. "And I'm going to open your   
jeans..."

Mulder let his hands roam, triggered as they were by Alex's   
sharp little gasp, the slow, instinctive roll of hips   
against his own. 

"And then what, Mulder?"

"And then I'm going to taste you..."

Fingers scrabbled at Mulder's nape, finally pinching the   
skin a bit to get him to tilt his head up. Hungry mouth   
working at his throat and Mulder looked up and up past   
bricks and fire escapes into a bluing sky and let himself   
be driven back against the nearest wall. Several, rough,   
thorough laps and Alex pulled away from the waist up.

"And then what?"

"And then I'm going to tease and kiss and lick and nibble   
you until you grab me by the nape -- just like now -- and   
fuck my face, Alex."

The voice was one step above a growl, the words   
incomprehensible, and Mulder could feel the impulses in the   
hand obsessively rubbing and pinching his neck. At least   
one of those impulses had to involve spinning Mulder around   
and doing his best to fuck him through this handy wall and   
jesus but the thought made him weak in the knees and liquid   
in the spine and, perhaps, one vicious squeeze away from   
coming in his pants but...

"But only after you've had breakfast with me."

Mulder had a moment to bask in the fierce pride that he'd   
gotten the words out, had made the nuzzling, worrying mouth   
quit working his throat for a frozen moment, but then Alex   
bucked hard against him, *ground* him into the wall and it   
hurt but any joggers going by right now would get one hell   
of a show...

"What if I don't want to wait?"

The words were menacing, the tone ragged with need. No way   
to separate the two, decide which was more responsible for   
his sudden decision that his spine wasn't liquid, at   
all.... Rather, it was a fuse and it was burning, sizzling,   
or maybe that sound was the chafe of the old t-shirt   
against mortar as his body refused to stop moving against   
Alex's. But when Alex dove in for a kiss Mulder managed,   
barely, to turn aside.

A sound against his cheek that had something of rage,   
something of laughter, and a large portion of lust.

"You're a lunatic." Ground against his chin. Another bite   
and Mulder would, perhaps, have to call in sick today. "I   
have a muffin in my car. If I eat the muffin, will you   
please blow me? Or let me blow you. Or both. We can   
definitely do both."

"What kind of muffin?"

"Mulder..."

"All right, all right, do you promise to eat the muffin?   
The *whole* muffin?"

Alex gripped Mulder's chin, turned him roughly and kissed   
him hard. Too many promises in the whipping, needful tongue   
to count. When Alex pulled away this time he was frowning,   
just a little, and dipped his head to hide it. Mulder   
wanted to smooth the tiny line on the pale brow, tell him   
he understood.... but settled for drawing the younger man   
a little closer. 

"Let's go."

Alex had taken the moment to recover and gave Mulder his   
best "I'm about to fuck with you mercilessly" look, but the   
older man wasn't buying it.

"We're taking my car."

"But--"

"We're *praying* your car gets stolen, burnt, and scattered   
to the winds."

"But what about the muffin?"

Mulder thought a moment. "I've got..."

"Yes?"

"I've got Tic Tacs in the glove compartment."

That was definitely a snicker, but Mulder couldn't bring   
himself to care. He had Alex by the hand and was dragging   
him, with very little difficulty, to the Taurus. From the   
corner of his eye Mulder could see the younger man scanning   
the street for... for whatever, and that, too, was just   
fine. Threw him in the passenger seat and drove off with   
shaky hands and the world's tightest sweatpants. 

*****

This was stupid, and dangerous, and several degrees of   
wrong but when Alex had looked at him, just *looked* at him   
at that last stoplight....

Mulder had decided the parking lot of this Friday's would   
simply have to do. When his seatbelt had refused to come   
off, Alex had produced a knife from... somewhere... and cut   
him free, guiding his head none too patiently to where he   
needed it most. 

Salt-bitter and blunt. Harsh cries and the simple faith he   
was losing hair. A constrained buck that was nowhere close   
to what he'd asked for... 

//much too fast//

...but perfect, just the same. This need.... This need was   
criminal in its own right but when Alex called his name   
like he was whipping his head back and forth in an agony   
of pleasure it occurred to Mulder that sin was nothing if   
not a good man's brother.

No time to taste, just take it all, believing with a nearly   
terrifying ferocity that yes, there'd be another chance.   
And then Mulder was burrowing under the t-shirt that reeked   
pleasantly of the both of them to get at the navel for just   
one lap, get that one last jerk and he was being tugged up   
for a long, slow kiss that only made the fuse of his spine   
send sparks of pain through his body. Mulder damned the   
awkwardness, wished, dimly, for one of the shameless gas-  
guzzling boats of his childhood, while he crawled into   
Alex's lap and started to stroke himself along the lean,

//We *will* get breakfast.//

muscular form.

Alex let his kisses travel back down to the older man's   
throat and slipped a welcome hand into the sweats. Alex   
never kissed him at these times, just let Mulder settle   
against his ear and left massive, bruising marks along his   
neck and shoulders with each knowing, powerful stroke.   
There was no mystery to this, and Mulder gave in to the   
request gladly, whispering and sobbing into the pixie-   
pointed ear, begging and promising while Alex brought him   
off at his own relentless pace.

******

Alternately sticky, swollen, and bruised, they panted   
quietly in each other's arms before Mulder rolled himself   
back into the driver's seat.

"You're in no condition to drive."

"You are?"

A pause while Alex appeared to give it some serious   
thought. 

"Definitely not."

Mulder nodded, made a weak grab for the car keys, gave up.

"It's because you don't eat enough, you know."

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secretly, there weren't even any Tic Tacs.


	9. Of course

Of course this land is dangerous. 

You can walk down the street and die half a hundred times   
before making it to the corner. And then if you try to   
*cross* the street.... Yeah, I'm paranoid. And afraid a   
lot. And it makes me feel so so good to just go out there   
and shiver.

Pull back my lip and throb with the intensity of terror.   
You must think it's absurd. An impediment to current   
employment, at least. It isn't, though. Fear is the   
assassin's friend. If you're not afraid, you relax. And   
the first time you relax is when They get you. Bang bang   
and you're done. I'm nowhere near ready to be done.

And if you're not too careful someone could slap a pair of   
cuffs on you. Or just the one, as the case may be. You can   
lose yourself in the clasp of cold steel on your wrist and   
remember the last time, and the time before. 

Wonder if he's got another Alpha male up his sleeve to dump   
you on to be beaten and fucked, and fucked again. No   
telling what would come next. No escape. Yeah, steel tight   
and binding and hit me again, just because you can, and   
it's the only thing you can do. 

Or if he's gonna finish what he started after that *other*   
time. I pretended to be asleep and he touched me there, and   
there, and rested his lips on my left nipple -- just the   
left one-- and it was more a kiss of warm breath than   
anything else but I was only wearing a t-shirt and it was   
so cold in the cell and it felt so good to just hold myself   
there, right there.

Wonder if he would bite me. I could see it, feel it almost.   
He would have been so hesitant... It's a game, I'm still   
asleep... And I'd feel his teeth just graze me at first and   
it would be so hard to keep still but it's good to be still   
and he'd bite down harder when I stayed still. Harder still   
if I could keep myself to only a moan.

Did I tell you about his hand? It was a purely neutral   
weight on my thigh. He wouldn't touch me any more than   
that. And then, after an endless time of reminding myself   
to breathe slow and steady, he walked back to his own cot   
and jerked himself off. In near silence. I understood.   
Sometimes it's better to wait. 

Other times, though, I find myself on a fire escape and   
watching, watching. Absolutely shocked he doesn't feel my   
eyes, doesn't seem to hear me creep and skulk my way   
inside. Doesn't flinch when I place the gun, warm from my   
body, against his ear.

He says:

"What took you so long?"

And leans his head against your belly. Burrowing. Nuzzling. 

And I realize he knows exactly how good it feels to be   
terrified and love it so much you don't do a damn thing to   
protect yourself. Or, if you do, it's only so you can   
survive long enough to have your heart wrung, your soul   
wrung, just a little bit drier. I say:

"I'm going to hurt you, you know."

And when he laughs, it's so perfectly, happily mocking,   
that I know it's what he wanted all along. 

~~~~~  
End.  
~~~~~


	10. Shameless

He'd said:

"Do something for me?"

In just that flat, dangerous rasp that twitched my cock   
clear out of freshly-laid sensibility and jerked my vocal   
cords into:

"Anything you want, Mulder..." And I smiled at him then.   
Probably quite stupidly, in retrospect, but the look I got   
in return was worth it for sheer lustful malevolence. I   
considered the image of him in leathers, filed it away for   
later use. 

He laid a hand on my chest... 

"Anything, Alex?"

... and, all things considered, the shower was a great deal   
of fun. Mulder wielded the razor skillfully and damn if I   
didn't nearly come afterwards from just the water sluicing   
down my bare legs. Made me think of the first time I'd done   
it for a john.... An artifice of vulnerability -- more   
binding than, say, makeup -- but still safe. The armpits   
weren't as much fun, but his tongue afterwards...

But the tease wouldn't go any farther. I was rock hard and   
about four seconds from kicking his legs out from under him   
and fucking his face when he pulled the... outfit... from   
the closet. 

Plain white blouse. Navy thigh highs. I was OK, really. The   
blouse could be just a lightweight shirt. Any lightweight   
shirt. The thigh- highs... well, they had the appearance of   
soft wool and I must admit I wanted to know how they'd   
feel going on. If he'd do it himself or watch me.

But I really wasn't counting on the skirt. Plaid. The sort   
with about seven different shades of that grey-blue that's   
supposed to say "prim," but always sounds a lot more like   
"flip me up and fuck this handy ass," instead. 

Well, that's what they sounded like to me. 

I looked at Mulder. His eyes were glittering, flickering in   
the realm of the skirt's shades. His lips were slightly   
parted and it looked like he was breathing as hard as it   
felt like I was. Breathing. 

"Don't touch yourself."

I raised an eyebrow, moderately confused. Looked down to   
find I was stroking myself rather steadily. 

I wanted to ask:

"What are you going to do to me?"

But it made it seem so final. I wanted to believe I still   
had some choice in this. Especially when he brought out the   
panties. 

Nothing frilly, mind you. That would have been... easier, I   
think. These were plain, white cotton panties. Wide elastic   
band and I could feel how they would press, and press,   
against my cock.

"Mulder...." I wanted it to be a question, but it wasn't. 

"Put it on, Alex. Please."

He didn't look me in the eye... He seemed to be focused on   
my throat. I brought my hand up, felt the pulse pounding   
under the skin. Walked a little closer. 

"What should I put on first?"

No hesitation beyond a sharp pink tongue running fast and   
wet over his lower lip. "Thigh-highs."

He rolled one conveniently for me -- this was a performance   
that would have to be repeated -- while I struggled with   
the other. Couldn't keep myself from hissing at the feel   
of it on my skin, God, I hadn't shaved in years. I was   
sitting on the edge of the bed and my cock was painting my   
belly. I didn't want to wait very long for the game to   
start, tried to flex a bit as I rolled the thing on. This   
was a deliberate abrasion, a subtle torture I knew was only   
going to get worse. Wonderful.

Mulder watched me intently but didn't touch, damn him. 

Second one went on a little easier and I stood, made my way   
into his space, felt those flat-tipped fingers tug at the   
band of my -- they were mine, now -- thigh-highs.

"What next?"

His eyes were a bit unfocused so I took advantage, dove in   
for a kiss, sucked his tongue into my mouth and promised.   
Begged. Caught the acid tang of need and pulled away. 

His eyes narrowed some. "I'll get you for that."

I just smiled.

"For now, though... the blouse."

Simple to get it over my arms but that cool-water brush of   
silk... I wondered if his revenge would involve my nipples   
at all. It felt dirty to have my cock smearing the blouse.   
I wanted... I *wanted*.

"What next?"

"Turn around."

I panted at him. That's the only way to put it.

"Turn around, Alex."

I obeyed, bent at the waist, splayed my hands on the   
ancient blue coverlet. Some commands could be anticipated. 

I felt his hands on my ass, kneading, spreading. The silk   
of the blouse was pulling a bit at the shoulders.... I am   
broader than Mulder. My cock was bobbing and leaking. 

The first stab of his tongue was shocking, a pleasure so   
bright I howled with it. It went on for a little eternity   
and I don't know what I was saying but it was tinged with   
regret... I wanted, so badly, for this game to continue and   
I knew he could bring me off like this, so easily. The   
feel of his hand, warm and sure, on my cock nearly did it   
but the vicious squeeze at the base...

Well, I was OK for a while after that. I wasn't sure   
whether to curse and face more of his torture or bite it   
back... like a good boy. Or girl. 

I settled for sagging a little. The blouse was clinging to   
my back. The thigh-highs were starting to itch with my   
sweat.

"Stand up and face me, Alex."

I don't know what I looked like but I felt... usable.

"What next?" 

And the "sir" wanted, very badly, to come out, but I   
wouldn't let it.

Mulder heard it anyway, of course.

"The skirt, Alex."

Did I pull it down over my head? It looked tight, like it   
would pull on my cock as I shimmied into it. I didn't know   
if I could handle that.

Mulder smiled, reached out and stroked my face. 

"Just step into it. I'll button the side for you."

Absurd gratitude. It was always far, far too easy to play   
these games. Dangerous, too. Mulder had to know I'd get him   
back for this. 

I obeyed, watched the fabric sway over the thigh-highs as I   
pulled it up, held the buttons for Mulder to fasten,   
looking over his shoulder. The skirt was wool, too, and it   
was scratching my cock maddeningly.

And then he stood and just looked at me for a long time.   
Smirked at the tent my erection was making of the skirt.   
Twisted a nipple through the blouse and I moaned. He wanted   
me to beg for the last bit, of course.

He picked up the folds of the skirt and rubbed them back   
and forth. I bucked, helplessly.

"What do you want, Alex?"

I wanted to be able to hold out but then he leaned forward   
and bit my nipple hard. It was all I could do to stand   
still, to keep my knees from buckling. I think I cried his   
name. He pulled away and there was a large wet circle   
over my right nipple. Clinging there. I wanted him to send   
me out on the street. I wanted him to spin me around and   
fuck me hard. Christ, there's no way to explain how fucking   
worthless I felt that I wasn't being *utterly* used at that   
moment. This was, suddenly, all I was good for.

"Please... let me put on the panties."

I barely recognized the sound of my own voice, but it   
seemed to please him. He nodded and smiled gently, but I   
could see his fingers were trembling a little bit. This   
was... this was different. 

I stepped in, and I felt like a child. I felt like a slut.   
I felt like a fraud, knowing these panties would be stained   
the second they touched -- oh God...

I thought the skirt was bad but these were so tight... I   
squirmed, shamelessly, until Mulder caught me by the hip. 

Under my skirt and I felt his thumb stroke along the bone   
for a moment. I couldn't look at his face until the other   
hand caught me by the jaw. Forced it.

Raw need. Anger. Fear. 

Yeah, I understood it perfectly. I wondered how much more   
of this we could take. When he kissed me this time it was   
bruising and that was just fine, too. I wound up on the   
bed, on my back... but that wasn't how he wanted me.

One last grind, a vicious bite on my lip and he pulled off.   
Caught the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.   
I was cold and I needed him back.

"Get over here. Crawl. Across my legs."

At that point, I couldn't even spare one part of myself for   
thoughts of the inevitable payback. All I could do was   
kneel up and obey, slide as much of myself as I could over   
those leanly muscled thighs, gasping as they scraped   
across my nipples, moaning at the feel of my cock   
pressing...

"You're so hard, Alex..."

The voice was rough and needful and he wasn't touching me,   
yet, but I could feel his hands hovering over my body.

"Slide up a little more.... Yeah, that's it." He flipped   
my skirt up and the temperature difference was shocking.   
Made me wait for it.

"You're mine, you know that?"

"Yes."

"You're my whore, you know that?"

"Yes."

"What do you deserve?"

"Anything you think I do."

He shifted under me and I could hear the stifled groan.   
When his hand fell the first time it was barely a glancing   
blow. He was testing me, grabbing hard at my ass. I didn't   
think I could beg for more of this.... It was too much to   
ask. He knew that, though, and without further torture for   
the both of us, the slaps began falling fast and hard. I   
know I jerked with each one, grinding myself down into him   
and up again, desperate to meet, desperate to please. It   
hurt and I was burning and I wished to God he'd peel back   
the panties and work me harder still... I think he doubted   
his own ability to handle it. 

More of forever, and the sound of my own cries mingling   
with his grunts and I wanted more... And then he stopped.   
Pushed me off his lap with brusque efficiency. 

I was aching and angry and shamed and then he grabbed me by   
the back of my neck and took my mouth with his cock.   
Several vicious thrusts, blunt-salty and careless, and it   
was over, his come leaking out the side of my mouth, ass   
burning under my skirt, the panties soaking with my own   
helpless pre-come. 

I looked up at him then, flushed and panting, still hard. 

"Pull your cock out, Alex."

I obeyed. Tried to hold back the groan. My balls were still   
trapped. 

"Jerk off for me."

I held his eyes, ran my thumb over my length. Let him watch   
me flush with it. 

Caught myself in my fist and squeezed. Managed to keep my   
eyes open just so I could watch him watching me. I kept it   
slow for as long as I could; I wanted to remember that   
hunger for the rest of my life. He couldn't tear his eyes   
away and it was wonderful.

Then he dropped to his knees in front of me. 

Bent down and... hovered is the best way to put it, over my   
cock. Pulling back and following my movements like... like   
nothing I'd ever seen. I had to close my eyes, then. 

Pulled faster, dug the nails of my other hand into the   
carpeting to avoid either freeing my balls or grabbing   
Mulder.... Neither one would be allowed, at this point. I   
felt a slash of his tongue over the head, jerked and   
gasped.

"Keep going." 

Breathed against me. I couldn't hold this much longer.   
Another tongue slash. "Please..."

"Please what?"

"Suck my cock. Swallow me down. Please..."

Another swipe and I nearly howled. I could feel the fingers   
of my other hand cramping. I was heavy and slick but I had   
to wait for his pleasure. And keep stroking myself. 

"Take your hand off your cock."

Almost impossible at this point, but I did it. And then   
there was a hand slipping between my thighs, freeing my   
balls and before I could even cry my relief a furnace of   
wet heat was surrounding me.

I know I called his name, bucked as much as I was able. 

And then a finger snuck further back and teased me and I   
was coming hard, yelling and sobbing. 

I woke to find him nuzzling me. I'm not sure if it was   
apology or affection or lust or some combination of the   
three, but it was pleasant. 

Sated again, it was just a silly, stained uniform. 

But it was mine.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


	11. Necessities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kormantic: Tell me a story. A little one. About Mulder's   
broken finger. About what Alex would do/did to get around   
it? And roller skates. 
> 
> Te: Well, hmmm...

Mulder is, of course, eager to see his rat and is all over   
him like gravy on biscuits from the moment he hears that   
familiar thump of bootheel on carpet, so much more muted   
than the one in his soul. 

Alex is pleased to oblige Mulder's welcome and they soon   
wind up on the floor, wedged -- mostly comfortably --   
between coffee table and couch.

"Owch."

"What?"

"Nothing, don't stop--"

"What the *hell* did you do to yourself?"

Mulder heaves a sigh. Does his best to coax Alex's hand;   
that fine, strong callused hand back where it belongs with   
a slow, tight roll of his hips. Alex groans but manages to   
remain focused on his face. He's waiting for an answer.   
It's infuriating, intriguing, and Mulder stores this   
evidence of control away for later play. 

"Some terrorists, a fuck-up of classic proportions..." A   
shrug, difficult when flat on one's back, but still   
feasible. "It's not like I broke anything *important*,   
Alex." 

Mulder lets his hips arch up into another roll. Alex's   
lashes flutter closed, and Mulder knows it is less the   
sluttish demands of his body than the flat affection of his   
voice. He has a moment to fear this power before Alex   
dives in fast, faster than he *ever* expects -- claims his   
mouth with bruising efficiency; centers himself within the   
cradle of Mulder's legs and thrusts. Mulder groans at the   
bright wash of sensation -- and then he hears the neat   
little *snick* of the cuff on his wrist.

"Wha--"

"Just a precaution, Mulder. Don't want you hurting   
yourself." Wicked knife-slash smile. "Any more than   
necessary."

He's been cuffed to the coffee table. The coffee table. A   
moment and he can feel his cheeks flush with irritation but   
then he remembers his *other* hand is quite free. He runs   
it up the lean torso and catches a nipple through the t-  
shirt with ruthless ease. Alex moans and bucks and this is   
moving much too fast but it feels so so good. 

"You're right, of course, Alex..." His tone makes the deep   
eyes narrow at him-- it always does -- and Alex immediately   
sets to undoing his suit pants, cupping him roughly through   
the cotton of his boxer briefs.

"How do you want this, Mulder?" A squeeze to buck into.   
"Hunh?" Thumb caress over the trapped and leaking head of   
his cock. 

"No rougher than strictly necessary..." His voice is hoarse   
and low but Mulder is pleased that he's able to tease.

And then, without ceremony, Alex yanks down his boxer   
briefs and the night dusty air is chill and welcome on his   
cock. It seems impossible, suddenly, that he was ever   
anything but aching for this, whatever this should turn   
out to be.

Alex jerks himself down Mulder's body and takes him deep   
into his mouth, pressing his forearm against Mulder's hip   
to keep him still. Mulder yells and jerks against the   
cuff. This is the hand he *usually* uses to guide Alex's   
head at times like these. The other hand is not slow to   
learn its new role, however, and soon his fingers bury   
themselves in the soft spikes of the younger man's hair.   
Just in time for Alex to pull off and begin torturing the   
head of his cock with his sharp, clever tongue.

This is too much, and not enough and when an ill-judged   
glance at the clock shows that only a bare few minutes have   
passed Mulder feels something tighten at the base of his   
neck, some twist of sanity to be contemplated, or not,   
when this was over and Alex was going down again. The   
first graze of teeth is a warning and a promise and Mulder   
howls this time, harsh and needful, and that sleek furnace   
of velvet and knives Alex calls a mouth is a temptation   
beyond the definition of sin. 

There's nothing to do but surrender to this and he lets his   
body go, lets it struggle uselessly against the powerful   
arm holding him down, lets his hand flop to the side,   
clutch at the couch and hear the dusty leather make   
alarming ripping noises that only shoot more blood into   
his want-heavy cock and only a few moments more and he's   
arching into a bow, a weapon of flesh spending itself for   
the target of his lover. 

Minutes, days later his free hand has found its way inside   
Alex's jeans and the slick heat is a pleasure, and the way   
Alex throws his head back is, too, and the way Mulder's   
name shapes itself amidst the short, stuttery streams of   
Russian is warming and ominous. Alex comes quickly, with   
one last raw cry and slumps on top of him. Short, strangely   
intimate laps and Mulder's chin has been licked clean, a   
slow, sleepy kiss of bitters and satisfaction follows. 

He gives Alex time to pant against his ear, does his best   
to get comfortable in the tangle of limbs and rumpled   
clothing before he asks:

"What do I get for a broken wrist?"

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Sorry about the roller skates... *g*


	12. Again

He was wearing a dress. 

*Again*.

My heart burned. My soul ached with the force of a   
thousand impacted teeth. I was *sooo* mad. 

I said:

"Jesus Christ, Mulder, what the hell is wrong with you?   
Haven't we been *over* this?"

He only gazed at me with that flat, really flat stare he   
does so well, smoothed the crinoline. I thought of all   
those other nights. It hadn't always been like this. I   
could live with the kilts, and those sarong things we   
picked up on the trip to Samoa really brought out his eyes.

Those eyes, changeable as a summer's day and twice as   
deadly. I'd seen them from across a crowded bullpen and   
known, right then and there, that it would all end as badly   
as a party at Chuck E. Cheese.

I said:

"How many times do we have to do this thing we do? You   
with the dresses, me with the knives and the scarring and   
the hey hey hey?"

He rolled on his belly but continued to stare, and I   
marveled at the power of his eyedrops for him to be able to   
go so long without blinking like he did. I mean, the   
regular eyedrops only do so much, you know? And then people   
start thinking you're a pothead and *no* one wants to hire   
you for the really important assassinations and your career   
is, like, *sooo* dead. Like his eyes.

I said:

"Mulder?"

Because I really wasn't sure he could hear me, what with   
those big tufted taffeta shoulder things blocking his ears.   
But he only blinked, slowly and provocatively. A dog with a   
bright green flea collar. 

So I took out my knife.

He said:

"Why don't we talk about this, Alex? I mean, really, what   
*is* your problem with the dresses and the knives and the   
scarring and the hey hey hey? We're two consenting adults,   
after all. See, I've got the blue hanky and everything."

He taunted me with a slow stretch, tugging at the rainbow   
leg warmers before sprawling out again. A real winner of a   
Muldersprawl it was, too, all sprawling-like.

I said:

"This isn't about *my* problems, Mulder."

And then I did that snarl thing like I was the big bad wolf   
and he was the fat, sassy doe, but it just didn't work.   
There was no frolic forthcoming. No gambol of sprawly   
limbs. No, that wasn't what I was in for. 

He said: 

"Let's talk about your father."

And it was always the same, this was just the way it went.  
Whine and counterwhine, a bad wine, like Ripple, or even   
Night Train, and I remembered the way it would flow, fast   
and dirty like the mighty Monongahela. Flow, like tears.  
In rain. Dirty rain.

I shook my fist at him, railed at the very heavens above.   
And then he did the thing that undid me, spoiled me like a   
metaphor of milk left too long, oh so long, in the nasty,   
awful, evil, naughty summer sun. He grabbed my fist in his   
own, and I lost myself in the glitter of his nail polish   
for a fleeting moment of...

He said:

"Alex, inside every fist is five individual fingers,   
yearning to be free. Let your fingers go free. Free."

I stared at him, blinking back the dirty, rain-like tears   
moistening my sprawled lashes.

And when he pulled out the assortment of tube tops, I did   
not fight.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any idea what the fuck I was smoking back then... do let me know...


	13. Sunless Morning

The geeksmut club.

Te: Wow... I had some M/K mindfuck dreams.

kormantic: {g} I spose.

Really? Share? Or too dark?

Te: I think your story is wonderful. Clean and   
neat and whapow.

kormantic: No silly. Share your dreams.

Te: Oh, Mulder and Krycek are holed up somewhere.   
They're sleeping in separate rooms. Apparently there've   
been issues before this. UST but no smut. Mulder wakes up   
one morning, way too early. Creeps into Alex's room.   
Mutters something like

"Jeez, Krycek. Least you could have done is left a few of   
those buttons undone. Give a man something to fantasize   
about."

Alex didn't move or open his eyes, just ripped the loose,   
white button-down open, and rested his hand on his own   
chest.

"You're thinking: That's more like it."

kormantic: Wooohooo!  
kormantic: See? That's my girl.. the sexiest subconcious   
ever I've seen....

Te: "You're thinking about resting your hand on my   
pec.... there's no hair there..."

Alex began to touch himself, eyes still closed, the rest of   
him still.

"The skin is smooth, warm with sleep. You're thinking he   
hasn't moved. It'd be all right if I moved the shirt over a   
little bit. Ran a hand over the nipple..."

Alex did so, with a degree of surreptitiousness that should   
have been ridiculous considering the game. Mulder bit his   
lip at the sight of flat, dusky rose, puckering under a   
touch he knew was too gentle...

Gentle enough that Alex would be able to pretend it wasn't   
his own hand.

"Krycek, what the fuck are you doing?"

Alex didn't stop, arched a little into his own touch. The   
eyes were still closed but the lashes began to flutter.   
Stammer in the approximation of that state between waking   
and sleep. He made a breathy sound.

"You're wondering about the sound he just made. Wondering  
if he'll do it again. If he'll moan. Wondering what you'll   
have to do to make him moan. Or gasp..."

Mulder leaned against the doorframe with a sour smirk, but  
didn't leave. "I'm partial to high-pitched yelps and sobs,   
myself."

A slight twitch to Alex's mouth.

"Or think you are... Maybe you'll have to do more than just  
touch him to make him do that. Or maybe just be a little.   
More. Harsh."

With that Alex took the hardened nub between his fingers.   
Pinched and twisted hard. The sound he *did* make was   
almost indescrible... a desperate whimper of pain and   
satisfaction that pooled knowingly in Mulder's groin. He   
pressed himself harder against the doorframe, feeling the   
long since broken lock mechanism dig into his spine... but  
didn't leave.

"You know he's awake now but he won't open his eyes... his  
body is moving restlessly, trying to anticipate where the   
next touch will fall, and whether it will... hurt..."

Alex suddenly ripped the rest of the shirt away, leaving it   
to puddle unevenly about his shoulders, made a small motion   
of surprise... perhaps at the breeze from the open doorway.

"This is the point where you think you should shock him   
with gentleness. Dip your tongue in his navel... but you   
know how oral you are. The taste of his skin, his moans..."

Light tapping of his own hand along the center line of his   
chest and Alex let out a noise, soft and low and Mulder   
caught himself just two short steps from the mattress, hand  
reaching out...

"But you know precisely how oral you are. You know that   
would end the game too fast. So you settle for running your  
hands all over his torso, a series of steady movements but   
you're pressing hard against him... testing him with a   
measure of your full weight. Is that what he wants?"

Mulder swallowed, gripped himself through the jeans.   
Squeezed hard enough to make his eyes water. "Krycek, you   
*did* say we needed an early start." Mulder's voice was   
much too low, but he almost sounded convinced.

"You saw it in his eyes last night. You know he wants you.  
You always knew... but last night, when he caught your   
hand. Why *were* you going to punch him? You don't   
remember and it makes you angry..."

Alex paused just long enough for Mulder to begin to rifle   
through his memory for the incident, but the husky purr   
dragged him right back. The hand was creeping in slow   
circles toward the slight bulge under the sheets.

"But last night he just looked at you. His eyes were wide   
and dark and you knew he'd do anything. Anything at all...   
if you'd only touch him like you're doing now. Make him   
come. You wonder what he'd do for you if you got him   
off..."

Mulder gave up, fisted his hands in the fabric of his   
jeans. The only thing to do was watch as that hand slipped   
beneath the sheets... He couldn't tell what it was doing   
and he   
wanted--

"Please--"

Alex's voice almost broke on the word... it had to have   
been a squeeze, the other man liked it rough. He knew--

"You squeeze him roughly, once, and again. Run your... your  
thumb over the wet spot on his shorts..."

There was a moment of triumph that he'd called it correctly   
but Alex just kept talking.

"And you only *thought* you knew how far he'd go to make   
you touch him with desire, just the one time... He'd suck   
you, definitely. Take you deep and then lay back and let   
you fuck his mouth just as roughly as you want to. He'd let   
you flip him over and fuck him hard. He's no virgin but you   
think you know just how good that tight, tight ass would   
feel on your cock..."

Alex pulled his hand out from under the sheets with a   
vicious jerk and his hips bucked a little in protest. A   
frustrated noise and the eyes moved a little more   
purposefully under the lashes.

"You can see he's getting angry. He looks like he's about   
to try to take control. You say, don't move. Don't you dare   
move, Krycek, or I swear -- Please, Mulder, I need it so   
bad..."

Alex's voice was just as hoarse and needful as it should   
be. Mulder swayed a little on his feet.

"You watch him writhe on the sheets, note the sharp scent   
of his desire on the air. It's getting warm. You're getting   
hot and Krycek... Krycek's a fucking furnace. You take his   
nipple between your teeth and--"

He used his nails this time. Cried out and something   
indecipherable... possibly Russian... spilled from his   
lips. Wet and a little swollen and Mulder had no idea when   
the other man had had time to bite them...

"You wonder... you wonder if this is the way he'd always   
wanted it. He'd never... never just hit on you. Just those   
looks. Those little touches..."

Alex never stopped pinching his own nipple and Mulder ached  
in sympathy. 

"He knew how much you hated the obvious. How it always   
made you look for the hidden trap. So he would've been   
subtle about it. He would've known you'd pick it up anyway.   
Or, at the very least, he would've-- He starts begging   
again. Mulder please, God it hurts just please fuck me.   
Anything you want, anything you want..."

Mulder reeled at the sound. Alex had cut his Mulder   
interpretation off and was begging steadily. The words were   
of that deep, sick need that bypassed the language centers   
of the brain altogether and took up residence in the balls.   
He couldn't help himself, breathed deep and yes the other   
man was right. The air was thickening and warm and the   
taste made his tongue curl against his teeth...

"You don't listen to him, bite harder. You want to finish   
the thought. It's the absolute least Krycek owes you. He's   
a bastard and a slut. He wants this bad... He would've   
thought you'd pick it up one of those times. There were so   
many... it seems absurd this had never happened before.   
Maybe he shouldn't have been so subtle. Maybe he should've   
just *asked* --"

And that hand finally let go of the tortured nipple and   
slipped beneath the sheet again. Complex movement but   
Mulder knew the second Alex got himself in hand --

"Oh, God, yes --"

Mulder felt his lip curl and welcomed it. "You're telling   
me an awful lot about yourself, Krycek." Smooth and cool as   
water.

The eyes finally shot open. Fixed him with a smug glare...   
yes, they were dilated, but the voice was flat. "Am I?"

Without another word Alex slipped out of the bed with   
simple, animal grace. The shirt fell off as Alex padded   
into the bathroom they shared, closing the door behind him.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


	14. Hard Times

I watched my lover preparing to leave by the smoky grey   
light of another Alexandria dawn. It was always like this,   
me, lying amidst the tangled sheets of our forbidden   
passion.

Alex, fumbling with his Barney suit.

Purple was so *wrong* on him.

Times were hard for everyone in the New World Order, and   
Alex's decision to fight on my -- losing -- side had cost   
him dearly. Oh, I knew well that blaming myself for this   
didn't really help either of us, but it's so much easier to   
do than the alternative.

I did not look forward to reporting to my new assignment.   
Long had I known of the Consortium's evil, but I'd never   
suspected they could sink so very, very low. 

Later this afternoon, as I had done every day for the past   
four years, I would pull my uniform on carefully. Brush   
imaginary particles of grey, smoky dust from my gleaming   
nameplate. Shine my sensible wingtips.

And lead tours through the National Museum. 

But not for a few more stolen hours of lassitude. Yes, I   
would think of my poor, lopsided Alyoshalet. I would weep   
for him, bitter, smoky tears, for I could not bear to weep   
for myself. 

Alex didn't look at me, he never did in times like these.   
But I know he could feel my sobs. I know they burned in his   
soul. He loves me deeply, in his way, and I treasure it. 

Like the half-eaten deep-fried banana sandwich I stole   
from Graceland, sealed clean and forever new in lucite, a   
diamond of plastic. 

Like his pink, fluffy bunny slippers. 

Alex set the bulbous head on his scarred shoulders, and   
then and only then would he face me, bright glare of   
morning sun on teeth of felt. So sharp in their false joy.

"I love you, Mulder. And you love me."

I keened for a moment before I could reply. "We... we're a   
perfect family, Alyoshawampus."

He nodded, big purple head wobbling a bit. He never could   
get it properly fastened, but I would never dare to help.   
It was not our way.

And when he left, I turned to my pillow, breathing deep of   
his essence, now one of the few tangible reminders of his   
presence in my life. And I wept.

Because I knew, now, what I had to do.

His slippers... 

Pink, like his skin after a time in the killing sun.

Cute, like his adorable widdle noselet.

Fluffy, like his hair after that time in the big industrial   
dryer. Oh, God! I wailed. Will the bruises never fade?

But I could not weep anymore. 

I was growing dehydrated.

The slippers were right where he'd left them, tucked neatly   
beneath our battered couch. Alex didn't know -- I will   
never tell -- but I'd named them long since. No, I will not   
lie about this. When first I saw their googly eyes shining   
plasticly at me from their cardboard-ian home I heard their  
voices in my very soul. 

"Fox," they said, squeaky tones. Furry tones. "Call us by   
our names, Fox, for we know you, as you know us."

And it was clear in my mind, then. Names, true and real,   
brushing through the grey smokiness of my brain matter.

Flopsy.

And Fou Fou.

I trembled like a child. I remembered tales of Fou Fou. And   
angels. And rodents. I cried --

Well, I just cried. And then I said, "Fou Fou, please tell   
me -- Are you here for my Sexylexei, my snookums, my   
*soul*?!"

And Fou Fou laughed, then, smokily. "No, my Fox. I swear,   
I would never hurt one that you love, for I love you, too."

And I sighed, then, relieved as a woman for whom the rabbit   
has not died. I would be safe with them. 

Today I tugged them gently from their dusty cradle, softed   
the fuzz from their eyes. I needed them.

I placed them on my naked form, hopped them over my rosy   
nipples just to hear them giggle, to feel the drag of soft   
fur on my skin.

Flopsy looked at me sadly, though. "Again, my Fox?"

I sighed, felt another grey tear slide down my stubbled   
cheek before setting them to do their Bunnyesquian Dance on   
my turgid, rampant flesh. 

"Yes, my little loves, again."

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... what?


	15. Good Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potential sequel to the Shameless chapter.

Mulder slipped out of the bathroom, careful not to brush   
Alex as he went. The other man was still half-asleep -- a   
level of trust to be proud of -- and pissing steadily.   
Nothing wrong, per se, with a brush on his way out, but the   
act tended to do... odd... things to Alex if done while he   
was relieving himself.

Mulder was willing to admit the fault was his own. It had,   
after all, been his idea that night to use the shower for   
those purposes. Mulder swept his gaze over the other man  
and decided that those purposes demanded a repeat   
performance.

In the meantime, though, it was another sunless Saturday,   
January chill and grey, and there was little romance to   
being nude at such times. On the way to the dresser,   
though, something on the bed caught his eye. 

He stepped closer to discover... an outfit. Pants and a   
shirt, nothing too outre, really, but it was velvet. Blue-  
black of that shade best suited to a bruise on a Jamaican   
stereotype... and velvet. 

"Put it on."

Alex was just behind him, pressed promisingly close and   
nuzzling his ear lightly. His face was warm, abruptly alien  
to Mulder. There were times physical contact became...   
difficult. When the feel of another body was suddenly just  
too *different* to be borne. 

Mulder pulled away with a small shake, bent to finger the  
material. Sat on the bed, turning to face his lover. Alex   
had pulled away himself, and Mulder wasn't sure whether  
it was pique or consideration. He was naked, too, and   
leaned casually against Mulder's -- now apparently   
useless -- dresser. 

Alex's expression was of that pleasant blandness designed  
to make people not look twice. It was a surprisingly   
effective mask on the man, considering the basic   
difficulties of hiding such an *odd* brand of   
attractiveness.

The only thing that it made *Mulder* do, however, was think   
of the days when they had been partners, and shudder. It   
had been far too easy for Alex to --

"Don't look at me that way."

Alex's nose crinkled into that painfully childish 't' of a   
frown and he cocked his head. "What way?"

"Like I'm just another mark."

"What do you --" Alex cut himself off with a grin.   
Unintentionally patronizing, it seemed less to say "you got   
me," than "you're so cute when you think you know me."

Mulder tried to shake off the run of his thoughts and eyed   
the outfit again. He felt his lips purse into a moue of   
distaste. 

"If you wanted to play dress up you could have just bought  
me a corset or something, Alex."

"What's wrong with what I *did* buy you?" The stress was   
light, the tone as well. Alex's way of allowing him to move   
this latest game into the realm of humor. 

It was the sort of thing that made Mulder regretful,   
especially when something Alex said or did was simply too   
curious to let pass. As though he was scorning an   
unfamiliar generosity. 

"You're going to make me look like an aging club kid. Like   
at any given moment I'll succumb to the inherently   
annoying melodrama and spout off platitudes about how  
it's my *right* to be depressed, man."

Alex snickered, shifted a bit on the dresser before moving   
to the bed. He nudged Mulder's legs apart with a casual   
knee, knelt between his thighs. The positioning, as always,   
put a twitch in Mulder's cock and dried his tongue. He   
couldn't feel it yet, but he was sure that it would become   
obvious at some point that his IQ was dropping   
precipitously.

The look in the other man's eyes appeared to shuffle amid   
any number of expressions before settling, briefly, on   
earnest. Earnestly what?

Not enough time to ask the question, or even to answer it   
for himself, before olive eyes shifted to slow burn.

"Mulder..."

Husky and low, hint of an accent perhaps more seductively   
changeable than even his eyes. 

"Hmmm...?"

Quicksilver grin, perhaps at his inability to come up with   
something more intelligent, and a slight dip and shift of   
his head. Alex dragged not-quite-dry lips over Mulder's   
left thigh and Mulder caught himself spreading wider.

"What is it, Alex?"

Another nuzzle and then Alex was kneeling straight again,   
expression solemn, eyes sparkling. Mulder wondered,   
sometimes, whether it hurt to be on constant shuffle that  
way. Sometimes he looked at Alex and thought of the scent   
of ozone and melted plastic aging stereo equipment   
occasionally gave off. But for now...

"Not all Goths are quite like that, Mulder."

Mulder shrugged, made a motion toward waving the assertion  
off. A learned response so he wouldn't always have to say   
"yes, I knew that already." 

He knew Alex understood it.

"Besides, I wasn't necessarily thinking Goth so much as...   
pettable."

"Pettable."

Alex's hand on his left thigh, it should have been too soft   
to be so plainly possessive. "Yes."

"I'm not... pettable... enough au naturel?"

Fishing. Definitely fishing but there was a high singing   
wire of recklessness tightening around his throat.   
Razorwire, and, perhaps, when it had sliced through the   
flesh he'd simply tell Alex everything...

"...pettable, no. Kissable, yes. Fuckable, definitely.   
Spankable... any day of the week. But not pettable."

"I feel like I should be insulted."

"Don't be. No one who isn't fuzzy is pettable."

"Really?" Mulder ran one finger down the smooth -- he'd   
taken the time to shave -- line of Alex's jaw, down his   
throat, over one wing of the collarbone. Alex watched him   
closely, but did not move. In this position, the other man   
resembled nothing more nor less than a piece of brilliant   
machinery. It was really no wonder at all that an Alex in   
motion made every hair prickle in electric attention. "Not   
even someone with silk-smooth skin, creamy and inviting?"

Alex's expression turned faintly mocking, and there was no  
sign of flattered embarrassment. Mulder was grateful for   
the moment of honesty, and moved his hand down to rub   
awkwardly at a nipple. Alex mmmed at him once before   
speaking.

"I need to get some sun and the proper term for people like  
me is 'strokeable.'"

Mulder pressed a little harder before slipping around to   
Alex's back and tugging him closer. "Not pettable?"

"Not pettable."

Lazy play, the sort that could last for hours without   
either of them noticing, but time was always a concern and   
Mulder *wanted*.

"Get up here."

Speculative gleam this time and then Mulder was on his   
back, securely covered by Alex's warmth and flex. He tested   
his legs and found them free of entanglement, which was   
upsetting. He did his own tangling and nudged Alex's leg  
just hard enough to make the man start to rock his lower   
thigh.

Too good for such a casual move and Mulder rubbed himself   
along the other man's thigh, ran the arm untrapped by   
Alex's grip down to the firm muscle of his ass and pulled   
hard. Alex responded by moving in for a slow, deep kiss and   
rotating his hips. The move brought to mind the dance as  
foreplay, the effect that of watching any consummate   
performer -- lost to his act, yet fully aware of what he   
does to the audience.

Mulder groaned into Alex's mouth and had his tongue   
suckled for a brief moment of messily easy lust before the   
other man broke the kiss with a wet smack and an   
animalistic *push*. Alex used his face for such brute acts   
of gentle distancing, unwary of an angry snap or perhaps   
simply confident that Mulder would no more mar that   
beauty than scar himself. 

There were times when Mulder eyed corkscrews and his   
own flesh with a brand of speculative desire. 

"Put it on? For me?"

"I feel the need to remind you that a, we're both already   
naked, and b, changing that state of affairs would prove   
terribly inconvenient, considering the fact that I'm, c,   
more than ready for you to show me just how fuckable I   
am."

Widely happy smile. "And spankable. Don't forget   
spankable."

"How could I? Move off me a little more, and I'll turn over   
so you can show me that, too."

Alex's smile mutated into something quite predatory and   
then Mulder was being bitten. On the cheek, on the chin,   
just below the ear, one nipple, two, a rib, his navel and   
there was the slickly hot tongue and then teeth again, just   
off to the sides of his genitals. Too close not to be   
feared, too far away not to be impossibly erotic.

"Alex--"

"Put it on."

Mulder met the other man's gaze with difficulty, finally   
propping himself up on one elbow and staring down the   
peppered-red length of his own body to do so. Alex was   
poised, crouched above his hips, lips parted, moving almost  
too subtly to be noticed save for the hallucinatory flashes   
of teeth. It occurred to Mulder, perhaps a bit late, that   
*he* wasn't the one who needed to be leashed...

But there was no leash here, just velvet clothes, and   
Mulder realized that if he didn't put them on now, as   
distasteful as the idea was, there'd be just that much more   
time to be   
painfully unsatisfied. 

"You didn't say the magic word." That didn't mean he   
couldn't be irritating about the capitulation. 

Alex snickered, sucked hard for a tiny flash of hurt and   
*yes*, and then looked up again. "Please put it on,   
Mulder."

"Well, since you asked so *nice*..." And his voice was   
shaky, but he decided the effect was a pleasant one. 

The jacket-y shirt slipped on easily, the interior vaguely   
slick and satiny. Cool on his nipples, just tight enough   
that Mulder found himself hoping he wouldn't have to raise  
his arms -- it would've ruined the lines. The pants,   
though...

He looked at the pants, his erection, the pants, his   
erection, Alex. 

"No chance of underwear, I suppose?"

Alex was lounging against the headboard, eyes roving along   
Mulder's body like a sprinkle of glitter on a sticky page.   
It was impossible to feel ridiculous in the beam of that   
gaze, naked from the waist down or no. 

"Do you really want to wear *boxers* under those, Mulder?"

It was the sort of smile that made a person want to change   
everything about themselves just to be able to say, "no,   
you *don't* know me, dammit," but Mulder decided it would   
be easier on his sanity to play along.

"Boxer briefs wouldn't disturb the... aesthetics... as   
much."

"Yeah, but I'd know. And *you'd* know."

Mulder ran one hand along his chest, winter-rough palm   
catching slightly on the subtle nap of the shirt. It didn't   
do too much for him, but then he was avoiding the sensitive   
spots. And he wasn't doing it for himself, anyway.

"Alex."

He could almost feel the pull as the other man dragged his   
stare up and over his body to Mulder's eyes. There was   
certainly something tugging on his cock, in any case, and   
Mulder had the distinct impression that this outfit   
wouldn't get more than one wearing. 

"What is it?"

"Don't you want to touch me yet?"

Alex winced like he'd been hit, hissing. It was the sort of   
cruelty that rebounded on the punisher, but Mulder had   
always believed Medea had had a point. And there was   
nothing quite like making Alex lose control.

"Of course I want to touch you..." 

Low, almost angry, certainly... impatient. Mulder didn't   
have a clue as to how much of the impatience was due to   
restrained lust and how much was just --

"Put the pants on and I will."

Mulder picked up the pants, held them against his waist. It   
would be a tight fit, but not an unforgiving one. "What are   
you getting out of this?"

"I'll show you when you're dressed." 

No one made promises like Alex Krycek. Mulder was   
reasonably positive that nothing short of throat cancer   
would make it any easier to refuse the man when he was   
*really* trying. A distressing power imbalance, unhelped by  
the knowledge that he could make Alex do quite a few   
strange things himself. 

The skirt came to mind, for an example, but then.... Mulder   
couldn't help believing there was no real *effort* on the   
other man's part when it came to his requests. Alex   
certainly never made *him* work this hard. And yet, it was   
far too easy to turn what had started out as a perfectly   
healthy criticism into just another reason to berate   
himself when the man,   
inevitably, left.

Same smooth and cool interior as the top, but this was   
different somehow, more noticeable. It was a pleasant   
distraction to try to decide *why*. It could've been the   
no-going back finality of stepping in and pulling up, with   
its uncomfortable resonances to childhood. It could've been  
the simple fact Mulder hadn't worn anything this tight on   
his legs since college, while he wore tee shirts quite   
often. It could've been the perverse-bordering-on-idiotic   
act of putting *on* clothes when his cock had been aching   
so long that pain was becoming a highly sexualized   
familiarity. 

Which brought Alex to mind again, and he paused at the   
moderately terrifying task of zipping the fly to take   
another look at him. Hungry and that wasn't going to help   
him get that fly up. Stroking himself and no Russian dog   
ever reacted so predictably to such a sight. Mulder prided   
himself on his ability to redirect the learned urges.

"Do it for me, Alex."

A quirked eyebrow and then Alex was sliding off the bed   
and on his knees. He used his hand to push Mulder's cock   
back out of the way, and his teeth to tug the zipper up.   
There were times that Mulder didn't mind the fact that he   
couldn't *quite* call Alex his lover. 

Alex stood then, careful to rub his entire front along   
Mulder's body as he went. He was happy he hadn't taken the   
time to raise the thermostat this morning, because long   
sleeves and long pants were anything but conducive to heat.   
The pants were already much too tight, the force of his   
erection seemingly enough to stretch the fabric obscenely   
over his ass.

Mulder was too warm and too hard and all he could think of   
himself as was shrink-wrapped meat. Alex grabbed his ass   
and pulled them together hard, thrusting against Mulder   
with instinctive rhythm, but not kissing him. Alex held his   
face perhaps three inches away, a distance that Mulder used   
to find impossibly provocative but was now only troubling.

"You're beautiful. I should have brought some eye-liner,   
maybe kohl --"

"You do realize what a ridiculous statement that is to   
make to someone you *had* naked, don't you?" 

By the easy chuckle he received in response it was clear   
that his attempt to pull the fear and bitterness out of his   
tone had been all too successful. But then Alex began   
kissing him, soft on his eyelids and cheekbones, sensuously   
slow and   
pressured on his lips. And his hand never stopped moving.

"Come back to the bed, Mulder. Please."

A mockery? A remembered consideration? The careful act of  
a man whose fantasy is perhaps mere moments from being   
fulfilled? It didn't matter, it didn't matter. Mulder was   
on the bed and subjected to the restless *petting* of a man   
there was never enough touch with, anyway. 

Thumb over a nipple and there was that curious shiver that  
came with being fondled while clothed, that abrupt need to   
keep one's eyes wide and watchful, lest one find oneself   
touched by the dead. 

But Alex... Alex was all flesh and alive. Nude, moving over  
him like a skittish dog, fast and light. The strain of   
muscle was easy to see -- he was holding himself back from   
crushing Mulder, or perhaps just from getting enough   
physical contact to come. But a hand here, his cheek there,   
his thigh oh christ his *thigh* --

Mulder had never thought he would look back on those   
drunken, over-heated grope sessions with fondness, and this   
wasn't *really* fondness, but if Alex kept doing that he   
was going to lose it in his brand new pants. And not care   
at all. Flex and thrust, flex and nudge and there was no   
real rhythm to match so Mulder didn't even try. Let loose   
to find his own pleasure, so long as he continued to   
surrender his velveteen body to the endless strokes--

"Hey, I thought this was supposed to be about petting."

Alex slammed his forehead against Mulder's shoulder a few   
times. "I lied. Look, if you *really* want me to just *pet*   
you, you can slip off this bed, rest your head on my thigh,   
and prepare to be otherwise ignored for several hours. I've   
been told the game has its merits, but I don't think either   
of us have the attention span."

"I've got some Ritalin in the bathroom..."

"No you don't, I checked."

Mulder froze for a moment -- only then realizing that he'd   
continued to undulate despite the lack of attention -- but   
refused to allow his mind to make him more wary of Alex. A   
little voice spoke of one-eighties, but it was far too   
quiet beneath the pound of his heart when Alex flipped him   
over. Hands and knees, no, wait, knees and shoulders. His   
head was turned awkwardly away from the other man, his body  
a rough triangle. 

Mulder watched his shadow move on the opposite wall, warm   
golden light of lamp providing more than enough   
illumination for this small show. His shadow's legs   
could've been naked, were it not for the fuzzed up remnants   
of Alex's passing, Impulsive, forgetful of his audience,   
Mulder braced himself on his arms just long enough for him   
to be able to develop an undulation, a dance ridiculous in   
three dimensions rendered sublime in the two. 

Alex had no place in this nightshade narcissism. Sophistry   
to say the two of them were proper opposites, two sides of   
the same coin. Mulder's only opposite was himself, and   
watching his shadow move was educational in the ways of   
war and love, showing Mulder that it would, eventually,   
take more than the creeping tenderness of the hand cradling   
a leg left trembled in its stretch to lose him this battle   
between himself and his needs. 

More than the solemn lust in Alex's eyes as he moved   
Mulder's velveted ankle low and slow down his purpling cock   
and rubbed. More. Just more than this, because this wasn't   
enough to explain the slack-boned lassitude of his body,   
the sensation that all his joints had been oiled with   
hashish before he was left to find a way to survive in such   
a state. Each move was a small explosion of surrealism   
behind Mulder's eyelids. 

Melting clocks and tiny sharp fingers, invisible and in   
motion, over the edge of his hallucinated vision and Mulder   
could feel, just beneath the skin the march of legions.   
Gathering in force under his throat, his nipples, his   
aching cock, but also spread along a thousand other loosely   
connected points. Alex slid up to join him on the bed   
again, ran his hand up over the shirt with a small purr of   
pleased ownership and tweaked his nipple.

Painful, muffled slightly by the cool, gentle fabric,   
slicker now with his sweat. A dreamy torture, second only   
to the rub and slide of Alex's body along his *again*. Alex   
wanted, and that was obvious, but Mulder was positive   
there'd be no satisfaction of the desire until the other   
man figured out precisely which thirst he needed slaked. 

"What is this proving to you, Alex?"

Mulder felt reckless, far too free. Not for the first time   
he wondered why the two of them had never taken the time to   
lay down a few ground rules. Here, like this, here in the   
thick grey morning of winter, Mulder was free to ask what   
he liked and damn the consequences. 

"Fuck me first, if you want, but tell me what this is doing   
for you?" 

Alex pulled off, curled at his side, and began to stroke   
his body in smooth, steady motions. Down an arm, over the   
waist, tracing the slight curve of a hipbone, finally   
settling on the already-stained crotch of the pants. Mulder   
moaned and tried to keep hold of his thoughts, all the   
while bucking into Alex's hand. 

The hand... the hand gave every impression of being an  
entirely separate entity. Alex didn't bother to watch what   
he was doing, simply stared at Mulder. Mulder did the   
watching for both of them, fascinated by the turn and   
caress of knuckles, the strange sensuality of a body part   
out for its own pleasure as opposed to that of the body it   
was attached to, or even Mulder's own. 

The idea of such detached lust wasn't entirely alien to   
Mulder, there had certainly been more than a few occasions   
when his cock had proven more mercenary than himself, but  
hands... hands were supposed to be innocent. Mulder didn't   
think he'd be able to watch the other man pull his   
ever-present gloves off again without aching for the   
selfish touch.

"... tell me yourself?"

"What?"

"Why don't *you* tell me what I'm getting out of this,   
Mulder? C'mon, I wanna know what you think about me."

I think you're beautiful. I want you. Get out of my life.   
Put on the skirt again. Don't leave me yet. Let me -- "I   
think you want to create some distance between us."

Gentle kiss on the mouth, but Mulder wasn't quick enough   
to hold him there before he pulled back again.

"I don't think we're... all that close to begin with."

"We're not -- don't stop -- but this... what we have. It's   
not an *easy* thing--"

"Nothing's easy." 

Thumb running up and down the fly... metal pressing   
against him, pain seemed imminent, but there was no way   
not to arch up into the touch, attempt to inspire Alex with   
his own whore of a body. 

"Keep talking, Mulder."

"You don't... don't seem all that interested..."

"I am, oh, I am... I know you. You'll tell me something   
that makes sense eventually. Or are you trying to..." Shark   
smile and another kiss. "... protect me?"

"Protect myself."

"It's too late for that."

"No--"

And then he was free again, bobbing against his abdomen,   
aching. It seemed ridiculous that any clothing could   
possibly be darker than his blood-thick cock, but there was   
no room for analysis after Alex licked his own palm and   
began to jerk him expertly. 

"Yes. Too late to protect yourself from me, Mulder. Just   
talk."

I can do whatever I want, asshole. But right now I want to   
come in your fist. "F-fine. You did this to see if you'd be   
immune to me in different clothes, a different form. Here,   
I'm just an aging stereotype. I don't even have to be   
Mulder at all -- just a dissolute former pretty boy looking   
for a quick fuck and maybe some pill money."

"Why, Mulder... you make it sound like I care." Whispered   
against the underside of his cock with high good humor that   
sat poorly in Mulder's stomach. 

"But your trick didn't work, did it, Alex?"

It was impossible to read the other man's expression with   
his own cock bisecting his vision with perfectly obscene   
obliviousness, but the brightness was clear and clean as   
any knife.

"We won't know that until I come back... or don't."

And without another word Alex took him deep, no time for   
shame, no space for recrimination or retaliation, just   
Mulder's favorite prison of wet heat and suction. Getting   
blown by Alex was like life in a wind tunnel, buffeting and   
strange, no world but his cock and Alex's mouth and   
whatever cries Mulder could squeeze past the sudden vacuum   
of his throat. 

He wanted to make it last, wanted to hold back and reap   
some reward for the seeming stretch of years Alex had been   
punishing him, but the pants were no longer up around his   
hips and there was a cool, slick finger up his ass. Mulder   
was hooked by it, landed and bucking and he could hear   
himself begging but chose to let the sound fuzz to   
meaninglessness in the pound of his own pleasure.

Closer and closer and it seemed Alex really *would* just   
let him come, finally, but the sadistic little jerk on his   
balls disabused him of the notion quickly.

"Oh you sonofabitch--"

"Shut up, Mulder. You *did* say I could fuck you."

Mulder panted up at the other man, wired and hurting.   
Alex was expressionless again, but the man's dick put the   
lie to any mask he might've been trying to wear. One-handed   
condom application and Mulder wondered just how much   
practice the man had gotten at the act. Or whether he had   
just sat in some quiet little room with a case of Trojans   
and worked until the action was a reflex. 

He couldn't decide which thought was more innately   
disturbing. 

But Alex was still yanking at Mulder's pants and his body   
was far more interested in getting naked again than in   
letting him be still long enough to thoroughly pick apart   
his sex life. Finally off his ankles and Mulder planted his   
feet firmly on the bed, trying hard to believe that,   
whatever else the other man thought of him, the sight of   
Mulder spread and waiting for him would always be enough to   
bring Alex back to him. But still...

"You fucking me was dependent on you telling me what this   
was all about."

Finger in his ass again, unsubtle professionalism doing   
absolutely nothing to lessen the pleasure. "You just never   
quit, do you, Mulder?"

Mulder wondered how long it had taken Alex to figure out  
that the best way to shut him up was to use his body   
against him. It seemed perfectly obvious to Mulder, but   
then the workings of the other man's mind had always seemed   
complex to the point of an Escher print -- enough to make   
the brain hurt, yet with a simple pattern buried somewhere   
within. He *would* find it.

Blunt nudge and he was ready, ready for it and needful. The  
burn was always the same and glorious. Necessary proof for  
later that Alex had been there, no matter how quickly the   
shadows and gloom of his own life rushed to fill his   
absence with normality. 

"Did you ever consider that the velvet might have had no   
more meaning than what I told you?"

Balls flush with his ass and Mulder slid his legs up to   
find their own home around Alex's waist. 

"No."

Short, workmanlike thrusts. More test than pleasure in the   
intent but it was the start of exactly what Mulder wanted.

"I don't always lie."

And there was a hand creeping over the damned shirt,   
settling unerringly on a nipple and teasing ruthlessly.

"You always lie to me."

Alex didn't bother to respond to that, just slipped out far  
enough that when he slammed his way back in, Mulder   
could do nothing but gasp. Or perhaps it was a response,  
another punishment... it didn't matter, Alex was deep   
inside him, and there was no way Mulder would let him go.   
Mulder was determined this time; he *would* match each   
thrust with one of his own, giving as good as he got.

However, as always, there came a point where there was   
nothing he could do but stay as open to the other man's   
pitiless fuck as possible. Too good not to enjoy to the   
fullest, too good to even consider the alternative, which   
was now just as foolish and ill-thought as any dead fashion   
craze. Mulder was there for the taking, and no one took   
like Alex. 

Eyes closed, muscles strained and flushed, sweat rolling in  
solitary droplets down the hairless chest to patter on   
Mulder... He pulled him down to taste him, not brooking   
the automatic resistance, demanding Alex rest his weight   
on Mulder's body. He wanted to *feel* him, because, even in   
this, the belief the other man would always be there,   
always inside, was too ephemeral to hold to. 

There was no faith but that in his own eventual   
breathlessness when the kiss was broken, in the belief that   
he would come and come hard just as soon as Alex touched   
him there--

"God, Alex--!"

And there it was, the hand on his cock simple and rough and   
how he'd ever thought the *other* touches were anything but   
cruel teases was beyond him. This grip, this iron fastness   
of slide and squeeze, was all the truth he needed in these   
moments. In this mindless pulse of pleasure he could look   
up into Alex's face and see... whatever he wanted to.

Later, Mulder couldn't quite stop himself from tugging at   
the other man like a blanket, an encouragement that felt   
more -- to his pride at least -- like a plea. Alex didn't   
hesitate to drape himself half on him, though, which eased   
the discomfort somewhat.

"You planning to sleep in that?"

Mulder plucked at the thoroughly ruined shirt, not   
bothering to open his eyes enough to get a good look. 

"Not if you plan on getting up to put the heat on..."

Easy snort, and Mulder wondered if his own laziness was   
doing the apologizing for him, if there needed to be an   
apology, if he even wanted to apologize at all--

"It really does look good on you, Mulder."

"And makes me biddable, yes." Mumbled into the pillow. 

Soft kiss on the back of his neck, arm over his waist   
pulling him back into warm, sticky flesh. 

"Nothing short of drugs and re-education could make you   
biddable."

"Mmmph. I suppose you'll just have to put up with pettable,   
then."

"For now." 

But the arm briefly tightened, and Mulder supposed that was   
good enough.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


	16. Seeing the Elephant

One day, you find yourself at the circus. You pretty   
much know right off the bat that it's a dream, because   
the bespangled woman balanced perfectly on the trunk   
of that elephant is Scully. You can't believe she's   
wearing pink. 

Your seat is small, uncomfortable, seemingly designed by  
and for sadomasochists. The leather is ripped -- you can   
feel it. And the floor... the floor is sticky. Clearly,   
this circus has been in town for a while. You start looking   
around for an exit, but then you see just who's flanking   
you. 

To your left -- didn't it have to be? -- is Alex, getting   
stickier by the second with his two-toned cotton candy. 

To your right is Fox, and now that you've seen him you   
can hear him pointing out all the ways circus performers   
manage to avoid getting their costumes wedged up their   
asses. It's abundantly clear that you've missed the early   
bits of that lecture. 

Suddenly, the circus doesn't seem so bad after all -- the   
boys are here -- and you note that there isn't a clown in   
sight. There is an abrupt shift in perception, and your   
internal voice is rather huskier than you remembered, and  
the taste on your tongue is far too sweet. Alex, then, and   
he's always loved cotton candy. The way it disintegrates in  
the heat of his mouth makes him feel like a hungry sun   
god, devouring the clouds as he makes his way across the   
sky.

Slammed back into yourself, you eye Alex askance, but   
he shows no signs of noticing. And then you're feeling   
a little piqued, you hate being ignored. It takes rather   
a while to notice that you're looking at yourself from   
the right. You realize what a frightening thing a   
Jumping Spider truly is. 

But anyway. Fox stops talking when he realizes you've   
long since stopped paying attention to him, and turns to   
watch Alex eat. The wild lighting turns the blue stain on   
Alex's tongue and lower lip black for a few moments, and   
Fox is reminded of an animal. He's not entirely sure which,   
but that could just be because he's heavy, hot in his   
jeans. A part of you is praying that your forebrain doesn't   
remember you're not supposed to have a penis. 

"Want some?"

Of course it doesn't work, you're you again. Fox leans   
past you immediately, rudely, but you don't *really* care,   
because Scully isn't doing anything really interesting on   
that elephant trunk, though her costume is now an   
infinitely more tasteful forest green. You're briefly   
impressed with her ability to change while performing,   
but it doesn't hold your attention. Alex's fingers are   
meeting Fox's mouth right in front of your face...

Alex hears you gasp and you know -- *know* -- that even   
though he isn't *quite* looking at you, part of his smile   
is all yours. Fox, now... Fox doesn't seem to be focusing   
very well on anything not Alex's Fingers.

Speaking of which, they've gotten awfully close to Fox's   
mouth, and his tongue darts out just as one of the spots  
whirls brightly over your section of the stands. You   
watch the candy melt seemingly *before* it actually   
touches that sharp, pink tip. The humidity of his desire   
is palpable, it seems, though it may just be the crowd --  
whose pulse and yell you can feel in your bones.

Even if you can't precisely *hear* it over the creak of   
leather to your left and the heavy breathing to your right. 

Oh, wait, that breathing is further away than it was a   
moment ago, maddeningly so, because you're bouncing   
through Alex's brain again. And Alex can't take his eyes   
off what Fox is doing. Lovers now for several months, the  
other man's focus was familiar, but seeing it in public is   
another thing entirely. Each suck, each lap makes it   
seem as though they're hopelessly, wonderfully connected.   
Part of the same being, if for no other reason then the   
fact that Alex simply *cannot* imagine Fox not feeling   
this *alive*. 

Not when he's devouring Alex's fingers that way, an   
ourobouros of the flesh, disturbing from the outside,   
irresistible from within. 

A rev of powerful engines far below, and Alex knows the   
motorcycle stunts are about to begin. He hopes, briefly,   
that Scully falls off her bike and gets run over six or   
seven times, but shakes off the thought as quickly as   
possible. He just *knows* Fox can read such things on   
his face. Anyway, the lights will start going insane   
right... about... now.

And they do, and suddenly Fox's performance on his   
fingers, those soft, liquid caresses, is more than just   
erotic and mildly embarrassing. The speed of the lights   
creates a strobe effect, and it seems his lover is moving   
too quickly to be seen, darting here and there to suckle  
like some pornographer's idea of a hummingbird. The   
fact that Alex can *feel* just how slowly Fox is really   
moving just doesn't help.

Alex has never particularly *wanted* to star in his own   
acid trip, but he decides that if it was anything like this  
he could cope. 

Not that you could. You fear what would come bounding  
out of your subconscious at the addition of certain   
pharmaceuticals, and that's all it takes for you to be   
back on the damned ripped seat again. 

You're watching Alex's face intently, wanting to see just   
how all this suckling is affecting him. Creeping flush,   
frown of near pain... you'd have to say Fox is being pretty   
devastating. The question has changed from 'what will   
they do?' to 'what will *you* do when one or both of them   
decides you're an obstacle to be crawled over for the sake   
of the greater goal?' 

Which is, of course, the two of them, coiled naked   
around each other and holding on for that brand of dear   
life that always seems rather fatal.

You decide to be proactive about the whole thing, and slide  
under their still-small contact, right into the seat just   
below and in front of you. It's a good thing that woman   
with the sombrero decided to go to the ladies'. You know   
full well what that line will be like, and settle in   
happily to watch the shows. 

They're playing "Paint It Black" during the knife-throwing   
act, which is pretty much asking for it as far as you're   
concerned. Sure enough, it doesn't take long before   
Scully -- in top hat and tails -- starts aerating the poor   
fool on her wheel. The meaty thuds fit right in with that   
familiar, rubbery bass. The audience is chanting...   
something. It has a nice beat. 

You glance back to see how your erstwhile companions   
are taking the circus' change in tenor, and find that   
they've managed to push the armrests up. They've   
made themselves a loveseat, and if you weren't already   
sickened by those tastes of cotton candy you'd probably   
think it was sweet.

Now, though, it's annoying as hell -- *your* armrests   
are *nailed* down -- and you can only console yourself   
with the convenience of it all. They'll be getting down to  
business soon --

And hey, that's nearly vertiginous because there's a hand   
on the back of your head and you're being *shoved* down   
into darkness. One black-jeaned thigh is against the back   
of the seat, the other is a mass of tense muscle beneath   
your hand. There's something coiled around your gut at   
the scent and heat, Alex, need Alex, and he needs you so   
bad you can already taste it so good to be between his   
legs again and you're reaching into your pants because   
you have to get off *now*, and god, your fist on your   
cock has never been better --

The dissonance nearly knocks you off the chair this time,   
and you wrench your own hand back to the armrest.   
There's something so *easy* about Fox... at least when he   
wants this badly. You look at Alex again and blush   
because he's looking straight at you, but then you get a   
good look at his eyes. He can't see a damned thing.

Or rather, he can see the lights start to blur at the edges   
of his vision because he's forgotten how to breathe with   
that lush, greedy mouth wrapped around him like that...   
yeah, just like that, Fox, and Alex isn't sure if the other   
man can breathe like that, but he just can't let go. Fox's   
hair has begun to grow out again and it feels impossibly   
good on his palm. Fox pulls back a bit and his hips   
follow helplessly -- he can't *not* fuck that mouth, he's   
not strong enough --

You decide that you're going to kill every spider you see   
from now on, just on general principle. You sigh   
disconsolately and steal the popcorn from the kid seated   
next to you. When he starts to bawl you nod pointedly at   
the center ring. Scully has acquired two large, scarred   
men who are, in turn, acquiring her new volunteers for   
the wheel. You've never seen her look so *happy*,   
flushed and smiling... It gives you a warm feeling, and   
you sincerely hope you're able to escape *long* before   
Scully's muscle makes it to section 41G. 

Something hits your chair with a wet smack, and you   
turn to find Mulder moaning around Alex's length, Alex   
himself arched and gasping. It doesn't surprise you one   
bit that you're stuck firmly in yourself for this part, but  
hey, the popcorn is good, the butter is real, and you've   
always liked the way Alex --

"Christ, yes, Fox--!"

\-- screamed when he came, so rough and hoarse, so raw. 

You're treated to some nuzzling and whispers, and it's   
good to be around for this. Alex's mouth on your own is   
always tender at these moments, and you've always liked   
tasting yourself -- whether you could admit it or not --   
and it's the best kind of confusion while it lasts.

Which, unfortunately, is never very long. The boys fade   
a little more with each whisper, and soon you're   
squinting at a perfectly empty sofa, which morphs itself   
back into stands, and grows spectators. The woman   
with the sombrero is back. Glaring. You turn to the rings,  
and there's nothing more entertaining than dancing   
dogs and bears. 

Even the dark stain where the wheel used to be is   
shrinking onto itself. You sigh, hand the smirking brat   
next to you the empty popcorn carton, stand and stretch.

It's time to go back home.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


	17. Vase

The little apartment is practically on top of the El. The   
place is dirty and bleak, but shows signs of having been   
lived in and cared for sometime before Alex acquired it. 

He is naked, chilled a little because the furnace in this   
building is not the best. The kitchen, however, is the   
warmest part of the apartment. Mulder is behind him,   
and Alex believes he knows just how the late morning   
winter sunlight, even strained through the small pane   
of dusty glass, is painting the other man's hair.

There is a glass vase on the windowsill that Alex hadn't   
been able to stop himself from cleaning one night. After   
the snow melted behind the building, he'd picked up a   
handful of the leaves that had somehow managed to dry   
themselves and dropped them in. 

When the trains rattled the vase, like now, the leaves   
made a skittering sound like a carefully creeping   
monster, guaranteed to be strange if he could only see   
it. 

Mulder is naked as well, and the slick fingers in Alex's   
ass are wonderful. Alex braces himself against the sink   
and thinks, 

'Anything, anything you want, it's all right, it's my   
fault, please don't stop.'

Except that some or all of that may have been said aloud,   
because suddenly Mulder twists the two strong fingers   
inside him, making his raise up on tiptoe, making him   
sweat, making him cry out for more...

"If I let you feel guilty for both of us, I'll just wind up   
feeling guiltier..." It's whispered against the side of his   
throat and Alex arches back to give that ruefully smiling   
mouth easier access.

Mulder responds with a groan, and Alex knows he's   
stealing fault again, and it'll be harder next time on both   
of them. He can't stop to make it better, he doesn't know   
how...

"Why do you want me like this?" 

And Mulder sounds almost plaintive, but he never stops   
scissoring the fingers inside of him. Alex doesn't   
understand, they're using lube, the bruises will be small   
and few... "Mulder, please..."

He knows that voice will be enough.

When Mulder sinks his teeth in, hard, Alex's cock tries to   
climb his belly because this is *right*. This is just right   
and he doesn't understand why the vase isn't still   
trembling on the edge of a fall.

Mulder is fucking him with his fingers now, rough and   
fast, brushing his prostate with no real rhythm or design   
or care... Alex is going to come from just this, or maybe   
he needs to move a hand down to his cock --

The hand bracing his hip is suddenly pinning his wrist to   
the sink-edge. 

"No... you want me *this* way."

And Alex moans his agreement, pushes back on those   
apparently tireless fingers faster. The air is cool against   
his belly, which he's been painting with his leaking cock.   
He feels sticky and trapped, a dying insect in the thrall   
of something so *bright* --

He sobs hoarsely when the fingers are removed, wishing   
the window was closer so he could rest his brow against   
cool glass for the eternity Mulder would make him wait.

The blunt nudge against his entrance comes after much   
too long but it's still a small shock. He thinks 'I'm   
getting what I want, I'd forgotten what --'

But then Mulder shoves the head past the restriction in   
one painful thrust and he cries out again, tenses for a   
long moment. Mulder's fingers tighten on his wrist, too,   
as if he thought Alex would try to escape him.

He forces himself to relax again, warming immeasurably at   
the feel of Mulder relaxing just slightly out of time with   
him. Or maybe just at the teasing blaze licking out across   
his nerve endings.

He imagines how the coming thrusts will feel and begins to   
moan again. Mulder pauses again, one hand on his hip, the  
other on his arm and tenses but Alex says,

"*More*."

And then he's fucking his way inside. Short, sharp thrusts   
that threaten to break Alex into pieces, a steady battering   
that wilts his cock a little even as it makes him need.

When Mulder is in, huge and real and *his*, he pulls Alex   
closer to him. Alex can feel a series of full-body shudders   
wrack the other man and struggles not to bear down at all.   
He doesn't want Mulder to come yet. 

Lips against his ear, dragging wet and warm across his   
cheek and down. Open-mouthed and then the sweat is   
being licked from the hollow of shoulder and neck and   
Alex is getting hard again.

He lets his head fall back, he feels boneless, tethered to   
reality only by the hand still pressed to the sink. Alex's   
other hand is stretched back to hold the other man in   
him tight. 'Stay right there, let me come just by feeling   
you...'

But Mulder starts to move, shallow thrusts that are still   
more stretch than fuck. The heat washes over Alex again   
and he sweats a little more. He can smell himself and   
Mulder. An old, obvious scent that just makes him hotter.

A little more now, and Alex's upper body is pulled back   
into arches with each thrust because he still has his   
hand on Mulder's hips. It's a subtle re-shaping. Mulder is   
an artist, making his body more than itself, less a person  
than an expression of pleasure in stretched, struggling   
muscles. 

Alex needs this so badly and he can't let Mulder control   
the pace anymore, beginning to move first in time with   
Mulder, then harder and faster. Mulder lets out a strangled   
groan and frees his wrist at last, moving both hands to his   
hips, knocking Alex's away from his own hip. 

He braces himself on the sink again, trying to be loose and   
useable as possible. Mulder slips out almost all the way   
before slamming back, forcing the air from Alex's body and   
he can feel his ghost try to fly past his teeth and he   
bites down hard and keeps it, waiting for the next thrust. 

And the next makes his teeth rattle, and the next makes him  
nearly howl, clipped off with the grind of Mulder's pelvis   
flush with his ass. 

"You want this, you *want* this --"

And Alex would say yes but he can't speak at all, can   
barely hold himself steady because his knees wants to   
buckle, *he* wants to buckle under the assault and the only   
thing stopping him is the fear Mulder might stop...

The hands at his hips grip tighter still and then Mulder   
finds a new rhythm, slow enough to retain the impossible   
intensity of each thrust, fast enough to make Alex fear he   
wouldn't be able to hold on to anything at all. 

"Show me, damn it..."

Gritted out and Alex felt Mulder's eyes pierce through the   
back of his now-burning nape and then he wasn't still   
anymore, rolling his hips with the wonderful punishment.   
Letting his soul spill through his lips in scores of   
helpless sobbing cries. Alex's face was wet with sweat and   
tears and he thought that was blood running down his chin   
and Mulder--

Mulder bucked suddenly and thickened inside Alex for an   
impossible heartbeat before coming with a yell Alex   
wished was buried in his throat.

Hot weight on his back and he was so hard it hurt but it   
only lasted for a moment because Mulder spun him   
around and fell to his knees with an audible, certainly   
painful thump. Grabbed his wrists again and forced them   
back hard against the lower cupboards and took his dark,   
throbbing cock deep in his throat with a muffled, harsh   
groan. 

And then fucked his own face ruthlessly on it until Alex   
couldn't hold back anymore and did it for him. Another   
groan and it seemed to last forever, stretching out,   
stretching his cock out over wetly hot vibration forever,   
and Alex threw his head back threw his hips forward felt   
Mulder's nose in his curls and shot. 

When Alex could see again Mulder was still on his knees,   
head bent, forehead pressed in the hollow of his hipbone.   
His face was wet.

Alex knelt himself, pushing Mulder forward a little.   
Wrapped his arms around the other man and held on   
through the world-shaking of another train.

He didn't have to worry about next time yet.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~

Having used every subterfuge  
To shake you, lies, fatigue, or even that of passion,  
Now I see no way but a clean break  
I add that I am willing to bear the guilt

You nod assent. Autumn turns windy, huge,  
A clear vase of dry leaves vibrating on and on.  
We sit, watching. When I next speak  
Love buries itself in me, up to the hilt.  
\- "A Renewal" by James Merrill


	18. So Tired.

When the complicated, vaguely disturbing black leather   
harness arrived, Alex began to worry.

It hadn't been the first gift. 

Sure, he'd received gifts like those before, and it   
certainly wasn't odd that they be anonymous -- few movies   
had the Romantic Lead providing the Love Interest with   
clutches of beautifully arranged surgical gloves -- but...

This wasn't just a crashpad, it was his *work* address.

Not that there were sniggering co-workers to be concerned  
about, but *still*....

There were only a few people who should have known he   
was here, and Jeff was the only cute one. Conveniently   
living with him after the nasty mess with his father,   
too.... But Jeff was also the only one who *hadn't* eyed   
him like a heart patient eyes a thick, juicy   
steak.

He hated hetboys. 

But that left several people he never, ever wanted to see   
naked. Again. Or to see him in the harness dangling from  
his hand, or any other harnesses for that matter.

It made him wonder about all the times Papa Spender   
called him Alex. It made his balls want to crawl back into   
his body. He was positive they were *trying* to do so. 

The only consolation was that the old men *he* knew   
would just order him to bend and spread, so maybe there   
were just a few more rebel alien moles. 

He stuffed the harness into the bottom drawer of his   
desk and headed down to the parking garage. Another day   
behind the wheel followed, most of it consisting of Alex   
not thinking about his secret admirer, and wishing that   
better engineers would get involved in the limo-building   
process.

The next day arrived with yet another box from the   
tasteful leather shop downtown. He swallowed hard. 

It *had* to be more rebel alien moles. Rebel alien moles   
that wanted his ass.

Highlighted nicely with buttless chaps. 

The rest of *that* day was spent in assorted beatings,   
and Alex found himself looking at how the eyes of his   
victims swelled shut. The forcibly blind look just didn't   
do it for him, though, and that evening was spent in   
intensive ice pick practice. 

Nothing came the next day, which was good because the   
weekly meeting was held in his office. He was on   
tenterhooks the whole time, though. It was far, far too   
easy to see the hard, curious looks from all the old men.

All except for the one who would be eyeing him   
hopefully from across the room. Maybe smiling at him.   
With bad, grey teeth. 

He came *that* close to snapping his little pointer in   
half and threatening to run anyone who so much as   
*looked* at him too long through.

And then came the hotpants with the insulated codpiece   
for storing chocolate. Well, it only said 'candy,' but   
*Alex* knew what they meant.

And the studded collar with monogrammed pendant.

And the dildo carved into a -- mercifully mostly   
flattened -- caricature of Nixon. 

The smoker, who had yet to notice that his *arm* had   
grown back, commented on his jitters. Asked if he needed  
a vacation. Put his hand on Alex's shoulder.

Alex shot him in the head, six or seven times, Jeff walking   
in on the fourth shot. Fortunately, Jeff was still feeling   
a little bitter about that attempted murder thing, though,   
and helped him dump the body. 

Which was really nice, when you thought about it. 

Later, while Alex was concocting plausible reasons for   
the smoker not to exist anymore, he asked Jeff a few   
leading questions about latex. The other man just scooted  
a little further away, though, so Alex was stuck hoping   
he'd shot the right guy.

The arrivals of the suede flogger, home piercing kit,   
brightly colored lube assortment, and volume of Walt   
Whitman poetry suggested he hadn't. 

Alex started killing everyone who got within three feet   
of him. The lack of consequences made him wonder why   
he hadn't tried this before, but some of the joy was lost   
with the continued deluge of presents.

The Maybelline travel kit was especially painful, as were   
the size 13 fuck-me pumps. In purple. He really, really   
hated purple. 

And he was out of space in his desk, and storing them in   
the back of Jeff's little closet just earned him more looks   
and the other man stopped coming home at night which   
was depressing because killing all your business   
associates is a lonely-making thing. 

On the day the erotically streamlined defibrillator   
(with heart-shaped paddles) arrived, Alex sat down and   
cried, right in the doorway. He couldn't even wait until   
after he'd terrorized the delivery boy some more.

Alex was very, very tired.

When he heard the footsteps coming down the hall, he   
couldn't lift his head, and barely managed to get his   
gun up. He fetched a heavy sigh, and waited. 

And was terribly disappointed to have only a bouquet   
of roses -- thorns clearly visible -- shoved under his   
nose. 

"Just put it with the cock ring sampler, please."

"Are you sure you don't want me to put them in this   
vase?" 

And then there was a penis-shaped porcelain vase in   
his face. With veins. But Alex knew that voice...

He looked up slowly to find Mulder staring down at   
him with a criminally cheerful grin. 

Dammit. 

He really, really should have known. 

"Hi, Alex!"

"I just have one question, Mulder."

"Yes?"

"How did you get this address?" 

"Oh, I've been stalking you for months. And then you were  
running around in that long, brown wig... Well, it just   
gave me ideas."

"You've been stalking me."

"Yes. And I like the wig. Do you still have the wig?"

"If you were stalking me, then you know..."

"That you're a lying, sadistic, arrogant prick who's living   
with a guy I really, really *hate*?"

"Well... yeah."

Mulder nodded. "I've known that for a *long* time. But   
something about that wig... and all that sexual *tension*   
in the way you look at me when I'm beating on you --"

"You mean like this?" Alex put on his best smolder. 

Mulder licked his lips and squeezed the penis so hard it   
shattered in his hand. Alex winced. 

"Yeah... yeah, that's it right there."

"Uh, huh. You know, that look was supposed to encourage  
you to *stop* beating on me."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Sex now?"

Alex looked deep into Mulder's eyes, reveling in the   
lust-glazed greed. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he   
could get the other man to say something reassuring,   
like that he *really* wanted him because Alex had just   
taken out the entire Consortium. For now, though... 

"Well, OK.... But no chaps."

"Damn. I had those tailored --"

Alex started humming to himself, stopped thinking, and   
closed the door behind them.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
